I'm Sorry If I Spooked You, I Only Meant To Write A Poem About You Poem by Cherie Mort

Soft brown hair, like rabbit fur, falls from his crown in soft ringlets
He holds a steaming coffee cup in his cold, calloused hands
Roughened from sketching
A cloud of condensation issues from his mouth in an exhale
After awhile, he takes a small, cautious sip, slightly scalding his taste buds
But just that sip is enough to make him smell like caramel
A warm, rich, buttery caramel drizzled lovingly into a cup of coffee with a girl's name and number written on it with a Sharpie
He smiles as he reads it, then spills coffee down the side of the cup and smudges the ink with his thumb
He wasn't interested anyway

As he walks home, it starts to snow
Snowflakes speckle his hair like tiny white roses
He shakes his head, trying to get them off
But all they do is flutter, and settle down again
He finally finds some shelter at the Green line stop
And he decides to wait for the train
He sits down on the cold metal bench and takes another sip of his coffee
A glance at his watch tells him the time
3: 08
He looks out to his left, eager for a sight of the train
There, far in the distance, is a moss-covered caterpillar squeaking closer and closer to him
As it approaches, he can tell it's not actually a squeaking caterpillar, but the train
He blinks as a snowflake falls in his eye
He should have worn his glasses
He wonders if his contact lenses will freeze in this weather

A few stops later, he gets to where he needs to be
He gets off the train and strolls home, taking in the scenery
A chilling breath of afternoon air fills his lungs, and he exhales, making more steam clouds
He stops and looks in a window to admire something
Or perhaps just to see the people inside

It's cold where we are
Snow crunches underfoot softly
I see a bench and rush over to it
I sit down, watching as the cars pass by
I wonder where he goes
I wonder what he does
A tap on my shoulder startles me out of my thoughts
I look up, and it's him
''Excuse me, may I sketch you? '' he asks in a warm voice
Like summer dripping from his vocal cords
I smile, and say ''Sure''
He smiles back, the scent of warm caramel coffee wafting over to me
I sit still as he draws me
Sitting on a bench in spring while it snows
But when I look up, it has stopped
And he is still sketching, a creative blaze burning in his brown eyes

He sketched me with his charcoal
I sketched him with my words