One line here is false, you actually wrote great prose. :)
I think the ending line could be deleted, and you can just summarize with impact using this as the alternative:
If there's one thing I learnt from the walls around me,
it's that being lonely allows for more space to scribble upon.
^ I liked this, it shows an amount of reflection and desolation that the speaker is alone. But such state allows the mind to travel outside of the walls, more options to ponder about, topics to write.
Although the ending was satisfying, I do believe it came, fleeting, to quickly. In just two lines. Powerful but I felt a little cliffhanger, like a race car going full stop. But still well.
This poem tells a daring story from the eyes of, what I would like to say, a dreamer. There are scattered images here that tells something about the speaker. The way she imagines and ponders about the couple kissing in the alley, well tanned barista wondering how it would feel to write prose with such environment, possibly inserting the people around her into her fiction... the sharing of cocunut... they easily, without intention, share the speaker's personality quite well.
The topic is very fun to play around with, you just gave birth with one of those poems that fit perfects to a writer's lonesome heart for poetry.
This is such a neat write. I don't have many words in response to your poem because it sweeps me in the moment and into your thoughts.... especially how I see the change from beginning to end. That you are meant to be a writer, but you're not an obsessive or fantasy-based or dreamy kind that sit in those cafes. It makes me think that you are an observer more often, haven't had these big, film-like scenes of romance yet you still write about it... then in the end, it's the realist in you who seems to dismiss love. Though you still have faith in it.
The last three lines sent chills down my spine, because they forced me to recognize the reflection of myself that I see in the image painted -- the dread I feel, that when I tell myself those very things, what I want the most isn't words or speech, but an angel with a sledgehammer, and that the scribble is just there as a distraction, from the pain of being alone.
I don't really have to say much about how great this poem is. Anyone who reads it knows. It's epic, an amazing, beautiful piece and I, personally, feel you on so many levels with what you're saying here. I could ramble about it but anything I say is going to pale in comparison to this piece. So I'll just say that the use of "creamy" when discussing a barista is wicked clever, the last line makes me struggle between being happy and being sad, and suddenly I'm questioning how much another straw would change the taste of coconut juice. Anyhow, I'm going to shut up now so I can go read it again. Wow, go you.