poetry reading

all the men i've ever dated never ordered hot coffee, always the frothy frappe kind for them. why is that?
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i remember late one sunday afternoon, at a coffee kiosk in the middle of an orchid garden- you and i fighting off sleep. we were together since the previous night with nowhere to go.

people pass by with their grocery bags and lives to go home to. this is our home- transient afternoons like this one , with money enough for two coffees, one cold and sweet, the other hot and strong.

you listen to me read the poems i wrote for you. the little notebook with scribbles painstakenly penned in handwritng you might be able to read, was a little worn from the countless times we leafed through its pages.

and the afternoon wore on. the barista asked if we wanted more water and a fresh ashtray. he had to ask twice. i was reading you, "there would be times when i would look at you and think the world is you."

and perhaps in some sunday afternoons, you still wonder if that were ever true.