For the Coffee Shop Writers

Perhaps it was the way the moonlight dimmed beneath your jaw line, silhouetting your five o’ clock shadow which attracted me to you so defiantly or the way I wore one of your wash-worn hoodies in an attempt to crawl under your skin. Your body, swollen around your golden years, muscles rolling under skin so moonbrushed and soft, shadows clutched to the underside; auburn eyes like that of an eastern prairie caught aflame, sent me into a euphoria that could never be explained.

You don’t say anything as we stand outside that old coffee shop. You just let the soft, pitter patter of feet and rain do the work for you. I suppose that that was your way of telling me not to get too attached, that you were a seasonal personality and you were only here for a month or two, before you left for the road again. You could never talk straight, anyway. It was always sarcastic remarks either blurted out or behind cold shoulders. You had always been unconventional to the core.

I hated you- but not for the reasons I should have. I hated you because of that cocky smirk that continuously plastered itself upon your mug, for the way the streetlights illuminated you in just the right way that you seemed to be right out of a fairytale book, the way your wind-chapped lips parted with hot air occasionally, and how I wanted to inhale it so furiously. How your eyes glazed over with indecisiveness as the splattering of raindrops fell from a backdrop of gloom.

Or, maybe, it was the way your fingers grazed my cheek like a child’s hand, soft and delicate, that made me love you as guiltily as I did.