Coffee, Coffee… Coffee

The warmth of the half cold coffee

Engulfs the room in which,

Our protagonist sits.

She's whoever you want her to be.

She'll never be hers completely.

Sometimes she knows,

She doesn't want to be,

As her lingering gaze traces

The space central to her.

A window in her quiet coffee shop,

Fogged up hiding her from

The world, but also

Hiding the world from her.

She's not a protagonist,

Sometimes she feels.

So she hugs her main character energy

Mug, makes herself believe,

Makes herself up for someone to be loved

And take her away on a white horse.

But it's our protagonist,

How could she find love, if she's never hers.

Fighting now seems futile,

But she's walked miles upon miles.

So accepting her fate, she returned

To their coffee shop,

Watching as people come and go,

Watching as they steal chairs from her table.

She never moves.

Not until her skin is dry and wrinkly,

Bones, dry and ashy,

Hair, greasy and falling in places.

She hugs her mug which has now gone cold,

Along with the room and her

Blood and bones.

by Priya Singh