In five years time,
I see myself sitting in the local
café of wherever I end up.
Sipping on a cup of bitter coffee
I’ll learn to like the taste of because
high blood sugar runs in the family.
Take it with a side of croissant,
and a good book.
My notebook and pen resting just
in case I get the urge to write about
some aesthetic this window seat view
is giving me. Some vibe that the
coffeehouse playlist is setting.
Some feeling that I’m not so lonely
in a place I don’t even know about yet.
How I want to be in a place I don’t even
know about yet.
How am I writing about a place I don’t
know about yet? How am I supposed to
get to a place I don’t know about yet?
I’m not sure.
But I know I’m trying to get to a
place where the coffee is good
enough for me to like coffee.
And the music is making me feel
some type of way about myself,
and how I got there.
Where writing just comes naturally,
and the pen doesn’t feel so heavy in
my hand, and the words are as light
and flaky as the croissant in my other.
Where I don’t have to write about
imagining myself in places I know are
better than here, but don’t know where
to find them yet.