June was standing in the middle of the crowded queue
She tucked a croissant into her mouth
Putting some sugar in her coffee
She held it in her intertwined fingers
That could clasp a vente and a job, in the beaten shade of the house
Maybe, juggle a phone call, amidst the donut aroma
Yet, she couldn't kiss someone with sugary lips, feeling shy not coy
In a coffee shop
I suppose whoever reads this
Knows deep down
Coffee shops don't sell romance to loners like her
Yet, she understands all the poetry books
Like I do, and she is the perfect girl
Who longs to be as beautiful as those females in poems
I want to tell her she is just right
Her jeans fit well
She thinks they are too tight for her lithe figure
Her shoes are too small
I like that she can compare our feet
Just like a child without insecurities
But, she is like the rain that closes down schools
The kind of storm that moves trees
Unaware of the damage she is doing to herself
And to the poet in me
Love can bring the poet out of a person, after all