My dream love feels like a coffee house.

It smells like the fall air and the leaves changing
and it sounds like pretty laughter and morning conversations.
It tastes like lattes and fresh baked pastries
and it looks like warm eyes and beautiful smiles.

She comes in and orders the same thing every morning.
I work behind the counter, and I’m always tired,
but when she walks through the door,
I feel like I’ve had a whole *** of the strongest brew.
She radiates confidence I can only wish to have,
and I wonder sometimes if she fakes it like I try to.

I know her order by heart, but I let her say it anyway
because I love how the words connect together
as if they were composed by Mozart himself.
I try my best to play it cool, to brush off the dizzy spell
that hits when our fingers touch while she takes her change.
To act like my stomach isn’t swarmed with butterflies
when she wraps both hands around the cup
and smiles with her eyes shut, fully content.

I’ve always been fond of genuine people,
the ones who speak softly and honestly,
and who hand out happiness
like they have an unlimited supply.
People who make conversations easy when my anxiety
is screaming at me to avoid any type of socializing.
People who make me think harder and laugh louder.

And I often find myself hoping that the cliché of
true love really does exist because
I could use a light in the dark, a partner in crime
who balances me so completely, it’s as if
we were perfectly made for each other.
And when she waves, the bell above the door ringing,
I always find myself craving a cup of coffee.