he's sat at a table by himself
100 degrees with a hot coffee in hand
he's waiting for someone and we're not allowed to know who
mindlessly, he thumbs through the pages in the book beside him
there's something in there that I long to learn
he says that there's still hope for us, unlike himself,
but he doesn't know that I see myself in him
for all he knows, he could be waiting for me to slide into the empty chair across from him
because it's over 100 degrees
and there's a hot coffee in my hands
and it's bitter and it burns,
but I drink it like I need it to survive