He likes to write poems
I think his greatest secret is
He wants poems written in his honor
To be forever preserved in sacred pages of letter and ink
He loves to write poetry
But his poems can not capture
His own beauty
Ink covered fingers or t-shirts with coffee stains
He smells like beach waves and vanilla pine
The way his hair falls in his face
And the pretty boy eyes he hides behind bluelight glasses
He likes to make the moon his muse
He would marry the sound of his own voice-
Projecting his spoken word or monologue across a crowded nighttime space
Nobody knows
This sweet barista boy
Has broken every heart
That every loved him

Cute barista boys are not to be trusted
But they sure as hell will give your heart all the butterflies of springtime gardens
And he will treat you like God
Before tossing you aside