Rings of coffee lay still on the lined paper,

Overlapping like ripples in a pond.

Ink bleeds over the stains,

Smeared and smudged it dances,

Attempting to tell a storyline while being drowned.

The cream colored mug is moved to my left, to cover a crack in the table,

Nearly two inches wide.

Its split large enough to hold crumbs of scone,

And maybe a slip of paper, left by some curious soul.

My pen is laid down for a minutes rest,

While thoughts recollect at the base of my skull.

I’ve sat here for an hour now,

Staring out a fog covered window,

Piecing together words and sentences,

Playing jigsaw with the creations of my mouth.

Eyes drift right, trace over the bar where caramel is pumped,

Orders are rung.

Past the man with black rimmed glasses,

Handing plastic cups out,

Labeled and printed with a thick green logo.

A boy sits two seats from the front door,

Tucked behind a wall that separates him from those in a rush,

Eager to move on to work,

Sipping hot liquid like its battery fluid.

His name is scrawled sideways,

Up and down his cup,

Ending near the lip of the lid,

Barely touching.

It is barely a coincidence to me,

That he happens to have the same name as you,

I have no longer tried denying signs.

A tap of my pencil,

A click of the pen,

Three inches of paper sits,

Waiting to be scribbled on,

Abused and tattooed,

All for the writers sake.

But I have already played artist for today,

With coffee ring designs,

Sketching patterns on the wood,

Leaving marks that napkins half-heartedly absorb.

An attempt at calligraphy is made,

With ink pressed hard,

Enough that it bleeds through several sheets,

I’m counting the seconds until I can forget you.

I heard once that the writer cannot print,

With a block in their mind.

Thick and invasive,

A knot in the creative string.

You’ve scared away my characters,

Don’t you see?

For seasons I have stopped behind this fogged glass,

On morning and evenings,

When the silver air has yet to be hushed away.

Armed with notebooks thick and full,

I traveled to this empty store,

With people running in and out,

Never once a single breath.

The girl behind the counter used to have my order ready,

By the time a makeshift writing station was established.

But two months now,

I shift and squirm,

Waiting for the loneliness to die away.

The characters have left,

At least for the time being,

Took their coats off the black painted racks,

Hats, too,

Packed manuscripts in briefcases,

Retired for a simple moment,

A stiff backed audience,

They wait with straight faces,

For a poem, a story, unlike their own,

To play out between you and I.

I’m left sipping coffee gone cold,

Folding napkins between my fingers,

Trying to attempt a love story,

In which I learn to get over you.

The only difference,

Between this and the thousands I have written,

Down the backs of spindly spines,

Is that in this story,

I will write to get over you,

Before I have the chance to fall in love with you.

Stop seconds before skin turns a bitter pink,

From blushing,

And smiles are carved in with the edge of a spoon,

From that patterned look you give,

Before I open the note you passed to me in the hall,

Or the one slipped in class,

I will write to get over you,

Before,

I have the chance,

To fall in love with you.