a coffee shop, not the kind they usually write about- not the dark furtiveness of hope and cigarettes no one in here is broken- at least- no one except for me at least- we all think that, already- about ourselves- but this is no places for dickinsons, all I can see in front of me is two girls who look like they could be in love in some other way, in some other universe and all I see to my right is two girls older and wiser than those ahead who're a little more broken, and a little more untrusting and in the booth, there, girls who have marked their computers their bodies, too, with their identities, splattered across the outside world because they don't have it in their heart who is that? staring out the window, not even on her phone is she waiting for someone? who is it? is she thinking about ***? Is she thinking about love? I am. Is she sad? she has her hand over her face, I still don't know why I love you so much- my music throbs in my ears, this is the holy grail of places free wifi and people who are exactly like me I look different than I am, do they, too? who are you? why don't we tell each other? if we don't, we might as well give up it's done, game over. we're through.