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Tragic Collection MAG
I've been sitting here for over an hour now
Hoping someone won't just walk by.
Untouched coffee in hand, work
Sprawled out on the table, I check my
Hair and posture every so often to
Make sure I can maintain that look;
That perfect medium between despondent
And comfortable. The look of the champion in heat.
I'm far from lonely but it feels euphoric when
I play it up like I've got no one. A tragic
Of displayers waltz through. Forced smilers,
Stoic cosmopolitans, nervous first-daters,
Hopeful last-daters. They shotgun their lattes
And iced mochas and come back for round after round.
A pleasant little billboard looks up from her frantic franticness
And catches my eye. She grins at me with her eyebrows
Mostly as if to make sure no one else
She grins at me checking my hair and
posture, cracks her knuckles,
Stretches her back.
She holds up her coffee to toast me from
Across the room. She knows I'm alone
And is being inviting. Forcibly, but with
A real toothy turn for the best, I reciprocate.
She takes a big drink. I take the first sip
It burns the hell out of me. The hell.
I hate coffee.