styrofoam dream

this is where i wait,
right here
in the waiting room,
where there is
stale coffee to enjoy
in little white cups
eight ounces high,
but i only fill mine
six or maybe five,
to leave room for
processed cream
that i stir around
slowly
until i complete this
styrofoam dream.
three sips in
and i think of you,
then of me
and my ghost-like
personality;
see-thru and
prone to vanishing,
but i'm here now,
clockwatching
with a lonesome stare,
legs crossed
in an empty chair
put there
for someone who
doesn't care
if they're lonely,
like me.
maybe i sit here,
and you can't even see me?
but don't you wonder
who drinks all the coffee?
or who admires
everything you do
like you're someone holy?

-kayla