Accidentally on Purpose

I thought a coffee shop

was a good place to get to know

him. He wears a god-awful striped

sweater;  it matches his

bowl cut well but clashes

 

against black Adidas and

the smile that got him this

second date. We’ve been here before.

I’ve been here before.

 

This place has become all too

familiar to cold fingers and stale coffees.

Nights linger on and my fingers linger on

naked bodies that don’t deserve my

attention. But this one stays,

 

and so does his ugly sweater.

Sometimes he leaves to tend to

insecurities like his coked-out

mother and the car that is now soaked

with rain water because she forgot

to roll up the windows again. For now

 

we sip on warm drinks and soften

our lips in preparation for

the night ahead. He speaks as though

there is nothing behind his skull.

I know this because he doesn’t break

 

eye contact with the birthmark on my cheek

he doesn’t know is really an aged

scar from my coked-out mother.

I thought a coffee shop was a good place

to forget about our demanding pain. I

thought it was a good place to

 

get to know him. 

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