The Man Who Serves Me Coffee
Monotonous repetition
“I want, I want”
The faces begin to blur
Features eventually disappear
Their voices, now a constant buzz
Outweighing his thoughts
The only other sound he hears is the ever slowing ticks of time,
Inescapable.
His life has become
A faded numbness,
A passionless spiral of motions
Tick, tick.
What lies beneath his sullen shell?
Tattered camo memories
or the loss of a love true?
She wonders, sitting in the corner booth.
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