A Broken Sestina

I sat at the corner table with my journal and coffee, Observant to the shop and the world outside preparing for the weekend. Through my gaze, I fell upon a girl who appeared somewhat frustrated. She had the look of a writer who was unable to find his story’s mot juste. However, she must have felt my stare, for, much like a fantasy, Her eyes met mine directly; her eyes of beautiful dark chocolate. She blushed a quirky smile and sipped at her hot chocolate As I returned a smirk and toasted to her with my coffee. I was now oblivious to the world but for her, a fantasy Lit up my mind like a firework display on the weekend. There was no way to explain her beauty, no mot juste, As the French say, though the thought left me frustrated. The shop was filled with chaotic noises that never frustrated The calm that I felt while I watched her sip that delectable chocolate Drink, a satisfaction like finding the ever-fleeing mot juste For an unexplainable sensation. I gathered my courage and coffee And sifted to her table, feeling like I was in a state of fantasy, Unbeknownst that I walked toward an unforgettable weekend. I’ll never forget how the sound of a song by The Weekend Was playing in the background, how she was frustrated Because it reminded her of bad times in world of fantasy Called the past, along with how she stained her shirt with chocolate, Even though the stain now resembled one of light coffee, Though the point remains the same; emotional mot juste. We talked for hours, and happy isn’t the mot juste For how I felt after leaving and wishing the weekend Would last longer. I would go to the same shop for coffee Day after day to meet her again, becoming so frustrated That I had not asked for her number. One day, chocolate, Rich and sweet, filled the air and enveloped me in fantasy. I lifted my head, consumed by leather-bound fantasy Which I was reading, to find her standing there, a mot juste In a dictionary of effervescent words. She set her eyes of chocolate Upon my own and cast me back into the past on that fated weekend On which we met. My embarrassment had me stammering, frustrated; Foolish. She smiled that disarming smile and bought me a coffee. She told me this coffee shop made her favorite hot chocolate And that she comes here on the weekend to unwind after a frustrated week. She’s a motif of pure, perfect fantasy existing in reality. She’s my mot juste…