How nice to not feel anything but observation
and maybe a little exhaustion behind my eyes.
To have my thoughts roll in slowly,
to stick to the plan to not make plans,
and to be neither happy nor unhappy.
I'm just here, with nothing to broadcast,
buried in gentle coffee shop curiosity.
In a place where language doesn't matter as much as the atmosphere,
words become invisible,
and the details enter my bloodstream.
The November chill, the open door, the drums in the floorboards,
the tea bags and coffee grinds,
the lyrics that don't matter though the windowpanes.
Silhouettes drawn by car headlights, half-burnt out porch bulbs,
characters that are a part of the coffeehouse but not my story,
reflections, dogs, brief smiles, confident struts, beards,
light-hearted eavesdropping, beanies, backpacks, hoodies,
money lightly spent, a golden Buddha on the counter,
a bell hanging in an odd place that I can't imagine anyone ringing.
A minor watching the adults socialize with bottles of growing tabs in one hand,
their other warming in their jacket pocket.
I will learn to quit asking myself if "this" is enough.
I will learn to embrace all human contact as love,
all smiles as human contact,
and any emotion as fulfillment,
because emptiness is the one plague that bears no self-identity or motion.
I will let strangers walk by, content,
because life isn't about meeting certain strangers
if I can love from a distance.
A stranger walking by, doesn't mean I love anyone any less.