Others shun your “type” and openly mock me for embracing you. You’re not as sophisticated as the ones they hang out with. What could I possibly see in you? You couldn’t possibly satisfy all my cravings? You are nothing but a cheap imitation of the ones they love they tell me. When I speak of the passion you stir inside me, how I cannot wait to take hold of you each morning they simply roll their eyes. After all no one has ever wanted to just sit with you for hours lounging the day away. You do not have a pretty name like Colombia Nariño or Kati Kati and certainly no one has ever thought to use words from the language of love to describe you, words like venti or trenta. But none of that matters to me nor does it diminish my passion for you. On the contrary, your simplicity drives me to want you even more. Because my dear street cart, large light and sweet, morning pick me you may never have the glamour of those Starbucks drinks the others love, but you will always be the coffee of my heart.