My coffees burnt,
By now I should have learnt.
But something about a rooftop garden cafe that serves pie,
Intrigues both of my blood shot eyes.

The light on the table,
Isn't doing me any favours,
It casts a shadow over my note book.
Over crinkled pages.

But still I return,
To see your face.
And still I burn,
To savour new tastes.