Someone’s grinding beans like its foreplay and I haven’t been touched in weeks.
The milk froths like shame, clinging to everything I haven’t said. There’s a boy
with chipped black nails writing in a Hello Kitty notebook, eyeliner smudged like
he made out with a thunderstorm. I want to marry his sadness, or at least fuck it in
the bathroom next to the mop sink and a sticker that reads GOD IS TRANS. The
barista’s name is Lemon. She says she came from somewhere colder and keeps her
sleeves over her hands. She sings Radiohead under her breath like she’s apologizing
for still being here. But when no one’s watching, she glows like queer grief in neon.
She asked if I wanted room and I told her I haven’t had room since he left with my
Joy Division tee and half my serotonin. Every table here has a ghost. Mine wears
glitter chapstick and says you’re so dramatic right before vanishing into the steam
of my cup. Sometimes I drink flavored lattes just to feel like I’m being hugged by
someone who actually reads my texts. Outside it’s raining — but like poetic rain,
sad French movie rain, wet cigarettes and smeared lipstick rain. Someone’s playing
Tori on their laptop — “pretty good year” — and I mouth the words like a spell to
keep me from texting him again. He called my crying aesthetically unnerving and
then left me on read. I’m not healing. I’m haunting. In a thrifted faux-fur coat
smelling like patchouli. But god, this place gets it. This place holds me like a slow
song in a gay bar at 2am when no one’s watching but everyone understands. The
coffee’s bitter and so am I. But fuck, I look good in this light.