Like a magnet does to metal,
Like the waves are to the shore,
Like a moth is to a flickering flame,
My eyes to him are drawn.
A cappuccino and a chocolate brownie,
In a mug and on a plate,
He watches the world outside the window,
And he writes and sips and waits.
What does he write? Why is it he waits?
What is the coffee house boy's name?
A thousand wonderings I could ask,
But can't through shyness and through shame.
Almost as if sat alone in a spotlight,
I can look at nowhere, nothing, no-one but him,
As his hand runs through his tousled hair,
Or rests gently on his chin.
From where I sit in the coffee house,
From a chair on the opposite side,
I notice his face, his nose and his mouth,
And the expression that lingers in his eyes.
Concern or worry. He's lost on his page,
Waiting or searching or longing to find,
Or perhaps this is, jsut once again,
an invention from my imagination, a perfect day-dreaming creation.
Just once again, a coffee house boy, I made up in my mind.
