Pattern

The barista doesn't ask anymore.

Just makes it—

the usual size, the usual pour.

The cup is waiting before I reach the counter,

already decided,

already mine, no longer

a choice I get to make.

When did I become someone

whose order doesn't need

to be spoken and undone?

I used to choose.

I used to think about what I wanted.

I used to say it and not lose

myself in the routine.

Now I just receive.

The cup is warm in my hand,

the same warmth, the same reprieve,

the same walk back to work.

It's easier this way.

No decisions. No words.

No need to say

what I need because they already know.

But somewhere in the ease,

I stopped being a person

who wanted and began to cease

being anything but the order I give.

There's something sad

about being that known,

about being that bad

at changing my mind.

The barista doesn't think.

I'm not a customer anymore.

I'm just someone who drinks

the same thing and disappears.