The door swings open, a bell jittering,
and the day spills inside like spilt milk.
I am a patchwork of half-thoughts,
stitched together by too little sleep.
The barista shouts, “Venti caramel macchiato!”
Her voice, a ribbon cutting through fog,
a lighthouse beam in caffeine-starved waters.
I feel the words land,
sharp and sticky, all at once.
Around me, the hum of humanity,
heels click, laughter clatters like spoons in saucers.
I clutch my name on a cardboard sleeve
as if it’s the only tether to myself.
In this room of hopeful hands,
every refill feels like a fresh start,
every name called, a benediction.
The espresso steam curls toward heaven
but stays grounded, like all of us.
She calls again. Someone stirs awake.
The cup exchanges from palm to palm—
a small, fleeting ceremony of connection,
syrup-sweet and fragile as morning.