she has crooked teeth
and is the tiniest.
and in the cafe
where she works
for three days now
i sit and wait like a fly for a spider.

but maybe
this time
Love is not my spider.

maybe.

or maybe shes too drunk on coffee
and has become incapable
of weaving a decent web.

but maybe
i blend
with her
senses,
like a smoker
can't smell the smoke
on your clothes
or taste it
in your
mouth.

its the coffee.

its become
the mud
in my veins
while i sit
and wait
to be
consumed.