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…
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2017
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