Muse: The Plaid Coffee Waiter
He wore a awesome red and blue plaid button down shirt perfect for the weather,
His hat wore the letter ‘A’ for adultery,
He moved with swiftness and compassion,
I can feel his love for the black coffee no cream, three splendas, add cinnamon, hold off a little on the love stranger,
He had on the coolest Docs I had seen in a while, very original,
It's been hard to find original in a world full of museums I had seen a thousand times,
Only his face didn't match all the cool things that was going on outside of him,
His face was sort of childish like those play glasses as a kid where there was a mustache and glasses attached to create a funny gesture,
Only this was his life,
The perfect coffee maker,
That was it, it seemed simple at first,
But then I stared a bit longer than usual,
Searching for some kind of truth,
I always believed the truth is always behind the eyes,
I tried over and over not to undress him but I could not,
His eyes screamed pain,
And yet all he could gain...was coffee beans,
And a smiled that seemed...polite,
But when he leaves here it's a constant fight,
Between his parents and coven that labeled him with a proud ‘A’,
They knew he was having unweded sex but had no clue be was gay,
At the coffee house was the happiest part of his day because the ‘A’ was a symbol for the coffee houses name but not his,
He didn't even wear a name tag like the others,
I even walked up to him, "Excuse me Mr. Mysterious waiter guy can I have a hazelnut swirl four creams and seven sugars and hold the hair brushing out of your collar from around your neck",
I needed to catch a closer look,
I wanted to hand him the money so I could breeze by his energy,
Yeah, he's definitely gay,
He had bruises around his hairy neck from his dad choking the straight black coffee down his throat, no cream, three splendas, add cinnamon,
No love,
He had bruises around his wrists from cutting himself he'd rather be dead on Sunday's only because that's family night,
His bruises on his arm marked back to the day he was born,
I'm assuming around five years ago when he came out to his parents,
But wait I need you here on Sunday for that extra love you put into my coffee,
The last time he added a pinch of cinnamon,
I wonder if I'll see him again,
There are plenty other days to be washed away,
And drowned in grief,
Yet every Sunday the sun shines through hi teeth,
Whether it's fake or in vein,
We are free the moment we are willing to accept it all,
His family won't come around,
He makes the best coffee in town,
He is gay and proud only on Tuesday nights.
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