an ode to overpriced coffee shops.

there is something absolutely divine about a six-dollar matcha latte.

the way the ice hits the plastic boundaries

and shifts the powdery green,

melting a million shades lighter

as it melds,

softly folding into some half-understood

alternative milk to match your alt music.

the hues of lucky a cold complement to a false,

French-adjacent croissant,

complete with steam

and a hard "r" that makes the flaky,

buttery remanents of your half-breakfast

beautifully capitalist.

there is something shockingly satisfying about eavesdropping.

catching snippets of a conversation between

three caramel-drizzle,

choco-mocha-latte,

frappuccino drinkers

gushing about photoshopping themselves into photos with Harry Styles,

only to suddenly shift tone at the swipe of an insta pic,

passionately arguing that if abortion is illegal,

so should abandonment of the woman you impregnated.

there is something so incomprehensibly soothing about the voices of a coffee shop.

falling in love with the barista's voice,

as they read orders off,

marking what can only be the incorrect spelling

of some mother-loved,

father-doted donning.

hearing the clink and chatter of machinery,

pushing ever so softly against the mellow,

yet bold sounds of coffee house pop

that elevate the empathy between a middle-aged trucker

and his stranger-turned-confidant,

as he unloads a year's worth of resentment

and journaling on an unsuspecting,

newspaper-clutching,

caffeinated naysayer.

there is nothing more lovely that falling in love at a coffee shop.

watching the sunlight frame your lover,

enveloping their soft curls,

adding a twinkle to their hearty,

yet suppressed laughter because,

you are in a coffee shop after all.