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.