Poetry

In between coffee sips

In between coffee sips

He’d pause and ponder

Wonder

About all the wonders of his own life

Why am I not at home?

Maybe there isn’t one.

Maybe I destroyed sll of it.

Maybe I let her go

Did I? Was it me?

His life was not a tragedy

As hard as he tried

To make it one

His soul wasn’t there anymore

No matter how much

It seemed to be

This can’t be happening.

It couldn’t be true.

She meant nothing to me.

But she did.

Or why would he sit here

Amongst coffee sips

Miserable and sorry

Sharing drinks, thoughts and tears

With a tombstone.

Poetry

Mystical

We’re lose ends; you and me

conjoining sights over cold coffee

mugs, in areas not a lot can see.

This isn’t the place to be

but the hell in me

adores this no end tyranny

of baseless conversations

and unconscious memorization

of the number of freckles on your left cheek.

Your body, strong yet meek

has learned to seek

shelter

in the smoked tiles of a thirty year old cafe.

 

I know ballet

didn’t work for you.

Blue was my color not yours

And the moon

had been unsparingly mystical

that night.

Yet how is it that nothing

seemed brighter than you

as you danced across the open air stage.

Your moves typical,

yet unpredictable.

dressed traditional

and in your mininmal

efforts into each

strung

of the violin

made me run

out of air to breathe…

 

Slowly, unhurriedly, bit by bit

and then all at once,

I became yours.