cristo redentor

The lights of a coffee shop,
an oasis along this shut down and deserted street.
the false hopes of staying under it's illumination
the growing weariness of the waitress' eyes on me,
saying she's tired,
and wants to go home.
waiting for me to leave on my own,
so she doesn't have to kick me out.

Her arms held close to her sides,
sitting far away from me, smoking a cigarette
the language of her body,
different from the smiles and warm greetings
given when I first walked in.

wanting this first respite,
half a year in the waiting,
to never end,
it keeps me seated
struggling to hold onto the fantasy in my head,
where she walks up
pours another cup of coffee
and says;

"Please stay, I'm happy you're here."