Oct 2012
I ran into you again in the old café.
You know the one, with its yellow and blue vintage mugs,
The one with the mismatched chairs and Old Persian rugs.
With the red espresso machine and the barista who knows us both by name.
When I say I ran into you, I don’t really mean we made small talk,
Or even acknowledged one another with a head tilt or nod.
It was more so I saw you from across the shop, and you saw through me.
I watched you order your coffee as I mimicked the bartender’s “Markus”.
I put my head in my book, the one about god-knows-who doing god-knows-what.
You took your usual seat, the one a table down from mine,
The one beside the window that looks down the main strip.
You drink your coffee with cold milk and sugar, with a slow rush and concentration.
I wonder where you go to each afternoon, who you meet with
And if she knows you bite your nails.
As you drink and think, you scrawl.
I follow your hand motions in-between a word or two on the page in-front of me.
Each time I try and imagine what it says, but each time you finish your cup you crumple the page and stuff it in your denims.
I wonder who washes your pants, who find those words,
Who treasures them the way I would.
I wonder if she knows you mess with the front of your hair when your hands don’t know what to do.
You pick up your empty cup, place it on the counter, you open the door and nod to the barista.
She nods and tells you to “not be a stranger”.
I look to where you sat, and feel lonely without your scribbling.
But where you sit is not empty, with a sugar *** and stir sticks.
Your words you left, for her not to find and for me to steal.
I walk to the table and turn over your page. It writes,
“A letter to the girl I see in our café, the one that knows us both by name.
I see you but you see right through me.
I wonder who you are looking for out on the street, I wonder if you are waiting for someone to walk by,
And if he knows you touch your hair when you’re nervous and drink vanilla lattes with one sugar.
I wonder if he is in your books you read about only-you-know-who and only-you-know-what.
I sit in the window where you look, waiting for you to see me,
I write and write to tell you something or anything,
But I know he is out there somewhere and not here in.
I scribble something down in hopes I can somehow get you to notice me,
But all I can write about is how beautiful you look in our quiet, old café, drinking the froth from a blue mug.”
You know the one, with its yellow and blue vintage mugs,
The one with the mismatched chairs and Old Persian rugs.
With the red espresso machine and the barista who knows us both by name.
When I say I ran into you, I don’t really mean we made small talk,
Or even acknowledged one another with a head tilt or nod.
It was more so I saw you from across the shop, and you saw through me.
I watched you order your coffee as I mimicked the bartender’s “Markus”.
I put my head in my book, the one about god-knows-who doing god-knows-what.
You took your usual seat, the one a table down from mine,
The one beside the window that looks down the main strip.
You drink your coffee with cold milk and sugar, with a slow rush and concentration.
I wonder where you go to each afternoon, who you meet with
And if she knows you bite your nails.
As you drink and think, you scrawl.
I follow your hand motions in-between a word or two on the page in-front of me.
Each time I try and imagine what it says, but each time you finish your cup you crumple the page and stuff it in your denims.
I wonder who washes your pants, who find those words,
Who treasures them the way I would.
I wonder if she knows you mess with the front of your hair when your hands don’t know what to do.
You pick up your empty cup, place it on the counter, you open the door and nod to the barista.
She nods and tells you to “not be a stranger”.
I look to where you sat, and feel lonely without your scribbling.
But where you sit is not empty, with a sugar *** and stir sticks.
Your words you left, for her not to find and for me to steal.
I walk to the table and turn over your page. It writes,
“A letter to the girl I see in our café, the one that knows us both by name.
I see you but you see right through me.
I wonder who you are looking for out on the street, I wonder if you are waiting for someone to walk by,
And if he knows you touch your hair when you’re nervous and drink vanilla lattes with one sugar.
I wonder if he is in your books you read about only-you-know-who and only-you-know-what.
I sit in the window where you look, waiting for you to see me,
I write and write to tell you something or anything,
But I know he is out there somewhere and not here in.
I scribble something down in hopes I can somehow get you to notice me,
But all I can write about is how beautiful you look in our quiet, old café, drinking the froth from a blue mug.”
