The Seasonal Menu
They always say that a man who really loves you
Knows how you take your coffee, but
I've never blamed you for not knowing.
I could order your drinks at anycafe we visited,
The house blend, or a caramel latte.
You were consistent,
sturdy, dark, like your coffee,
easy to satisfy and plain.
You never knew what drinks I would order,
No matter how many times we sat shoulder-to-shoulder
at Vienna's bar.
Irish mint frappuccinos, hibiscus herbal teas,
Or strong black coffee with sloshes of simple syrup
poured in while I laughed
I too, am like my coffees and teas.
I am loud, bold, I am the seasonal menu;
The one consistent thing about me is my frequent inconsistency
You knew this. And so you never ordered my drinks for me.
You never pretended to have such privileged access to the inner workings of my mind.
As to know what I would want.
I admire that.
But now, when I sit at Vienna's front window alone,
avoiding the plush leather booths
Where we sat
on the same side,
When even I don't know what to order for myself
I wish that someone understood me well enough to know
what I want, and
I wish that, just once, you had known me well enough to order my coffee.