edits

I ordered a mocha on a whim and wasn't sure why until
I watched her make it. She scooped the chocolate, tamped
the coffee, held all the pieces into place and wiped
the steam wand with a damp white cloth, then held
my drink to it, filling the milk with air. I mistook
the pattern  in the foam for hearts; I had said too much
by the time she slid my drink across the counter and
I stood in my own silence, looking down, thinking how
everything I do is a love letter: stroking the hollow of spoons
when I wash them; wiping down the table with a sponge,
making staccato music with my fingers on a keyboard,
begging my girlfriend for forgiveness. I don't know the language
of love, I explained. Only the braille of my footsteps in snow,
a choreography of errands criss-crossing the city, my body
a skywriting aircraft, careening wild across the sky.