I count the hours till we're alone,
to take my sweet repast.
To savor every word you've written,
and make our moments last.

That you would deem me worthy
someone to share your dreams,
of stardust and deep desires,
of heartaches and moonbeams.

The love within each stanza,
and care within each line.
Crafted only just for me,
your precious thoughts, all mine.

As they were my only food,
my air, my blood, my breath,
I'll take them with me where e’er I go,
even unto my death.

My candle is now burning,
it waits to light your prose.
My heart is ever yearning,
my love for you, it grows.

Think not that I am lonely,
yet lonely I would be.
If your lines to me were broken,
and never more to see.

In a small bistro, on Bleeker Street.
They serve you a proper cup of cappuccino.
Made from an espresso maker
brought over from Milan in 1929,
and served in an  ivory colored china cup.
In the foam on top is the signature swirl of the Barista.
There is a handsome young waiter,
with a serving towel hung over his left arm,
and a crumber, in his back pocket.
He leans over, scrapes the remnants
of the previous customer's biscotti into his hand,
and says to you in a thick, dark curly haired,
Italian accent, sounding like a young
Giancarlo Giannini,
And what will you be having today Signorina?
You think to yourself,
I have worked all day at my mundane job
and here is a man who truly loves what he does for a living.
He most likely was born into a family of waiters,
and he loves serving me.
I would like a cappuccino please.
As he walks away, you take out your pen and paper
and begin your daily addiction of writing poetry.
He notices you, noticing him.
You can almost read his mind as he watches you write.
He watches your pen and paper and wonders....
Is this mysterious poetess
who has been sitting in the corner
writing about me?.
Waiting for the proper time to interrupt your fervent writing,
he brings your order and you take it to your lips.  
He watches from a distance,
anxiously awaiting the look on your face.
You have never had anything so wonderful.
The coffee flavor bursts on your tongue
and you are born again.
The gentle foam with its signature swirl is now on your upper lip,
and you give the young waiter a satisfied smile.
He rushes to your table
and takes the serving towel from his arm
to gently pat the foam from your lips.
You look into his dark eyes and see the new you,
the you who will no longer order just a cup of coffee.
The you who will seek out the signature foams of life,
and wear them on your lips forever more.
The handsome waiter smiles a smile of contentment,
his hard work has pleased you.
He brings you a fresh slice of torte Caprese and says,
Try this Signorina, it is my favorite.
You are now in heaven.
All of life dissolves in one single bite.
Scusa Signorina,
but I could not help noticing how beautiful you are and that you are writing a poem,
may I ask what it is about?
He looks deep into your impossibly blue eyes,
and you say to him.
*You!