She’s curled up in
a coffee shop,
all arms, long legs and a book
that’s shut.
Alone, she stares
at couples embrace,
the syrupy slurs of love
in haste. With much
Resent she sips
her tea. Leaves lipstick stains
for the waiter to clean. And wonders,
hopelessly,
“what will become of me?” And slowly
frowns as she unfurls, standing up
to greet the man
who calls her
“honey”.
It's just a poem about that floating sense of longing that drifts over people sometimes. Those fleeting moments you can ****** whilst waiting for something or someone, where you find yourself quite alone, often with unrest. It is also about the pains of comparison, experimenting with flirtation, questioning your own situation when observing the loves of others. The subject is still young, just barely an adult, with the burden of relationships already heavy on her shoulders. Around her she observes the hastiness of youth, their desire to be with someone, to prove something, to feel wanted, to pretend to be in love. That feeling of rushing guilt, uncertainty, in the wake of a partmer whom you do not love, but whom serves a purpose, allows you to fulfil a passive, sweet and comfortable role. This was a bit of a ramble!