The Man in the Coffee Shop

The man who works at the coffee shop looks like you. I noticed this some time ago and have since frequented the place. He recognizes me now. He smiles at me when I come in. His smile even looks like yours. He doesn't say hey though- you always said hey.

I still work at the library even though you're not there.
Sometimes I look over to your desk and expect to see you typing at your computer, but someone else is there now. It's not you.

Sometimes someone will come in who looks like you. Maybe he will have the same hair, same stature, same profile, same laugh, same voice. It's never been you.

Sometimes I drive myself crazy. I pull at my hair and scream 'till my lungs burst. I scream for and at you. I ask how you could have left me here.

Sometimes I allow myself to believe that I will see you again. By chance we will run into each other in a Wal-Mart far away.

I go to the coffee shop on Tuesday afternoons. I order a small chai tea with milk.

Sometimes the man is working at the cash register. He smiles at me as he rings me up
and tells me to enjoy my day.

Sometimes the man is arranging pastries in the glass display. He looks up from the sugared doughnuts and slices of pound cake to give me a warm smile. I feel a pang in my stomach and my smile borderlines on grimace.

I take my tea and sit myself in one of those fancy armchairs.

Sometimes I bring a book and read. I send myself far away while sipping warm, spicy
tea.

Sometimes I bring a poem I've been working on. I scratch out lines and rewrite and rewrite again.

I stay until the place closes. I toss my cup in the garbage and file out of the shop with the other late night customers. He smiles and asks me to please come again.