He wrote me a poem.
It didn't come with frills. Or added sugar. Or anything I'd become used to. It was like drinking coffee black, pure, unfiltered, gourmet. And me, I've never brought myself past frappucinos, with or without the added caramel. He wrote it for me, or I think he did. My melting identity, my perpetual confusion, his puppy eyes when your foundation was at its weakest. Yes, I think he did, I think he wrote me a poem and yes, I was surprised.
I couldn't have written that night. There was too much. My roommate was happy, for herself, for me, for the experience we had shared under the disco lights. The next day, he was surprised I hadn't written anything and I thought that maybe I should explain, but I knew better. Me with my melting identity... someone in that mess knew better. If there is no explanation it's impossible to give one, I suppose, but there WAS one that I couldn't put into words.
It was different. And not because
he wrote me a poem.
It was... it was living, after being content to rot. Like drinking coffee black, pure, unfiltered, gourmet. And you know what...
I don't miss frappucino.