Poetry

Coffee Break Letter to a Woman sat alone at Another Table

A Cappuccino Poem

I give up.

I’ve been everywhere looking for her, turning street corners, riding in fair grounds, staying awake in concert halls.

All the while she was sat in a coffee shop, by the window, the sunlight catching the slight greying in her hair, as rich as chestnut, in loose waves.

Cradling the cup between her hands, elbows on point, she takes a thoughtful sip.

Should I love her? I’m old enough and, more importantly, wise enough not to approach her. Age is supposed to bring a degree of acceptance, so I’m prepared to accept that loving her from this table is a way that no hurt or harm can ever come of it.

However, should we be sat together, I would tell her how I climbed the hills today, the sun keeping me company, and if I looked just left, there’d she be, coyly pushing between the fluffy, easily movable clouds.

Sitting where she is, I cannot say we met, and parted before going our lonesome ways.

We were just two strangers, having coffee at different tables.

One writing a poem.

English writer raised in Scotland, living between California, Missouri, Colorado, and Scotland.

Adrienne | Keeley | Whye | John | Ted | Karen | Pamela | James | Jack |