Starbucks before takeoff

I sit on a stove and talk to the walls. Cardboard boxes join me in the tunnels that drop me to the floor. Napalm skies dye the blues in my face, and my thoughts smell the Bermuda Triangles. Bread on a bedrock, milk on the coffins. Shattered glasses rain like confetti, and I stop. I hear footsteps drifting like three fingernails scratching on a blackboard. An entice, a spark, but a colleen in a white floral dress, brown boots. Epic blue eyes, breathtaking cascades of blonde hair, touché. Citrus, woody, oriental-looking bracelets jingle, and a jaw-dropping smile. You bewilder: You know, it feels like every single time I go to a party, I feel like a waitress. A waitress who doesn't talk back to the commands of an artist.  An artist who doesn't know how to color empathy. Empathy that doesn't exist in a society that never minds poverty. Poverty that keeps us grateful. Grateful that I see you again.

 A woman in white delights in me with a smile on my first day as an intern at Google. Camaflouged apple logos and the glistening white, crystal-clear rectangles ease my footsteps to my desk. I smell the Post-Its and the plays that play the delete buttons. I white-screen my thoughts to the yearbooks that transpired the excitement of my first crush on Skype. You approach me in a smile with a note. I think you made the team. You were quite fast.