2. Coffee

In the small coffee shop, with the only sound being Frank Sinatra--I mean, besides the sound of coffee effortlessly welling into beautiful mud-brown mugs,--I wanted to hold your face in my hands so delicately and tenderly. Where the cold or warmth from my fingertips could feel the gentle slopes and ridges of your smile or your frown.

 Where all I could see is your vivid but reserved blue eyes, and all I could focus on is the heat of your flushed face under my palms. 

Maybe, just maybe, I could stare at your eyes and make a smile appear in them, it doesn't have to be on your face for me to know it's there, don't worry. (Although, your smile is quite lovely)

And if you don't like that idea, I could just lay on your chest and draw invisible circles in the palm of your hands, listening very intently on your heartbeat, but do tell me, would it flutter? 

Or possibly, you could lift me up so I'm on your toes, and lean my head under your chin, as to absorb every moment of time with you. 

And now, the music stops, and I jump down from my stool, coffee in hand, and wander into the day, hoping, perhaps, these simple wishes of my mind will come true.