I feel like I haven’t done my part to contribute to the unofficial genre of Poetry most often written in the corners of cafes and the like. You know, the type of cafes that stereotypes tell you that you can stumble upon in France near the Eiffel Tower, in the off-the-path alleys of New York City, or the free-trade-hole-in-the-wall places that dot your average college-towns, USA.

And a pretty girl sits two tables away, and The Poet won’t talk to her— he just does his best to seem alluring with his lukewarm cup of bitter caffeine and the intentionally irresistible stubble on his sallow face that complements the shadows under his eyes and the elegantly disheveled mop of hair on his head that comes from the sleep deprivation that has become his only late-night companion. And he sits there chewing the end of his pen just like he’s chewing the many ways he could twist a cliche to make it not so— to skim the fluff and give it edge. Like his coffee: Black, no foam; Like his soul. 

At least, that’s what he told himself so as to retain the self-pitying cynicism that was somehow justified as ironic because he addressed it with a smirk on his face and a dull glint in his eye.

I feel that, as a “Poet” if I may call myself that, I should contribute to this genre. The deliciously masochistic genre of being too poetic to pick the apple of your eye and take a bite. And here I scoff upon that romantic genre of sweetly marinated pretension when, I notice you at the table across from mine.

Now, this is not Paris, New York or that Starbucks at the mall with the shiny laptops lining the wall. This is a fundraiser dinner and you are sitting with your grandmother and little brother among an array of other, stereotypically loud but lovably so, Lebanese relatives. The synth and percussion reverberates through the swanky function hall and everyone is drawn into its rowdy charm. I am not, however. I am watching the slight furrow in your brow as you rest your not-quite-so bearded chin on one hand while the other absently stirs your flat Shirley Temple.

But don’t think that the music does not take me because you are wearing that snappy shirt rolled at the elbows so as to accentuate the humbly impressive tone in your arms quite nicely— no. Like I said: Synth music… Oi. (But it is a nice shirt.)

And so I have my notebook and so the tired stereotypes of the cafe poets in their various incarnations are smirking over my shoulder as I, rhetorically speaking, stick my foot in my mouth.

You look like a gentleman; You shake hands with your elders and you give them a smile that isn’t quite Gatsby, but to the right person it very well could be (I’m right handed… does that count?) As the bubbles in the carbonated caffeine rise up to the top of the glass to my left to remind me of the waning time, I raise my head to examine you again. This is poetic, not creepy, I promise.

You’re different than your hairgel-binging counterparts running around tonight with their chest hair poking out of the tops of their obnoxiously bright shirts with the popped collars and whatnot. I bet if I talked to you, you would look me in the eye instead of distractedly over my shoulder or— Oh. Oh no, you’re looking at me I’m such a creep oh geez keep writing don’t make eye contact again okay—

It is during the times when I am in dire need of some suavely attractive nonchalance that I am most conscious of every muscle in my face and every hair out of place and every glance that overstays its allotted time-frame and how the most subtle twitch can speak volumes when all you really want to be heard from you is the implicit suggestion that you very well could be the right person to spend the night getting lost in conversations with, instead of the louder earnest plea to be given a chance; the plea that’s buried below every facade, yet somehow makes its squeaks subtly sensed, just apparent enough in your flaming cheeks to scare people away. As I return your shy smile with a version of my own that probably conveyed to you a sense of constipation instead of any type of allure, I notice the rosiness of your cheeks as you continue smiling at your hands folded together on the table in front of you.

I avert my eyes to the lines on the page before me for one last consultation before I decide that this time, things will be different. This time I won’t wallow in self-pity whilst waxing poetic to comfort myself; This time I’ll trudge ahead of my pounding heartbeat instead of allowing it to pressure me back to my wallflower position where I’ve come to realize that the cons outweigh the perks; This time I’ll see if I’ve found my Gatsby smile up close; This time I’ll catch you before you— before you stand up, peel your coat from the back of your chair and put it on as you walk away without looking back. Exactly like you just did.

The Tired Cafe Poet incarnates that began the night smirking over my shoulder, then moved to clapping me on the back to go forward and do what they wouldn’t are still hovering over me. But this time, they are not cheering, nor are they gloating. They collectively reach out a comforting hand and place it on my shoulder because I have realized that it wasn’t what they wouldn’t do that was their problem— it’s what they couldn’t do: get over themselves.

Writers will sometimes mock each other, but perhaps it is because we are all the same. Our insecurities are remedied by our passions and our passions are susceptible to become fueled by how we ostracize ourselves instead of how we can be more than what we are and more than what we see and when that goes wrong, we feel vindicated instead of aware that we have fallen into a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy where the passion that is supposed to take our shortcomings and propel us to new heights, has actually become the crutch we lean on to justify these things that we do to ourselves.

Sometimes, that is the trouble with writing. And the sad part is, a part of us embraces it.

I glance up again. A busboy is clearing away the glasses and cutlery that you’ve left behind. As he straightens out the tablecloth, it’s as if you were never there. And before I can comfort myself with the thought that perhaps you never really were, I stop myself and close my notebook as I conclude that it was in fact, me that was not there— that is not ever really there. And how long would you wait for someone that never shows up?