I must look ridiculous
to these other café patrons—
just a woman with orange-dyed hair
blinking back stubborn tears,
trying not to cry
into her honey, lemon, and ginger.

But I sit there, half-failing
to maintain my composure.
I look anywhere else—
up at the ceiling,
out the window,
trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.

These tears dare to seep,
but this sadness needs to steep—
not pour.
Or else they'll overflow
in overwhelm.
I must take the helm.

So I take a sip:
that warm, sweet bitterness
rights the ship.
And the gentle calm
soaks back in.
They may glance over and wonder
What must be on her phone
To evoke such emotion?

Oh, don't mind me
I'm just writing poetry
about a silly girl,
and her hopes for understanding
Falling onto deaf ears yet again
and again,
and again,
and again
One more long swill
A sharp intake of breath
They prickle at my eyes,
Again

My teacup is empty -
I think I'll need another ***
For the sake of my sanity
I cannot let them see it pour
For a flood, an empty teacup
Has begot