the slow art of breathing bitter

Cafe House

I heard you came to my town last week,

For some office tour?

 My town's seven blocks away from your workplace.

I thought if we could sit somewhere, not a single place!

Not a park, not a garden,

Not any cafe corner.

'Cause here people don't smile,

People don't laugh or dance

They hear echoes of the past,

And smell roses from the ash.

We haven't met for seven years;

Seven years like the wine burning your throat,

While you float in the bathtub water—

Mild cold, easing your arms, the blue eyes dancing in your mind.

We haven't talked to each other for seven years.

Can't we pause our worlds, sit for a while, and talk for an hour?

A round table, tales of light and dark, the soft smell of coffee

Driving our thoughts crazy in a funny feeling.

And a sudden shower of rain, damp brown dirt on the glass,

Drenched window pane, a sip of hot coffee.

You would not be floating on the water anymore—

Your thoughts loosen and pull apart,

A sudden spark through your nerves,

And the same dimple I missed seeing for years

On your left cheek.

A few words of yours, a few words of mine,

We'll hide them under this cherry-red tablecloth;

None will ever know.

Brown embellished walls, a pleasant smoke of brewing coffee.

A blue-burning flame like a twinkle in an angel's eyes,

The cafe where we used to color our youth,

Where our mornings were the prettiest at ten,

And our purple evenings were like waves crashing upon the cliff.

Do you remember them? They still brew your favorite espresso—

Just a little expensive.

Let that be; Who can even pay back the value of everything in life?

I'd be there at five. Won't you come to the Cafe House?

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A/N: This's inspired by a sweet poem "Cafe Corner". So kindly tap the little star, and make the hopeful narrator happy! :)