the cafe is dark
today.
thunder and
lightning have
struck nearby,
abruptly stealing
the block's power.
catastrophic.
the result is evident.
a place
drunk in murk.
i can barely see you
darling
tranquilly seated
on the far corner
with that marvelous
auburn hair
which to this day
i still wonder if
it smells like
almonds and honey
or rather like
green herbs
as i think of your
skin.
but through the
cloud of dust
and opaque air
i distinguish your head
resting on your palm
with your elbow
laid on the table
and you're searching far beyond
your gaze lost in the
serenity of the grungy
afternoon.
and someone speaks
to you
but you don't realize
until the words come to
an end.
you're busy,
only i get it,
writing all these lines
in your head.
YOU ARE READING
I named her Africa #Wattys2015
PoetryI didn't mind if my fingertips were rusted with coffee grounds, or if my palm still hosted bread crumbs, I reached out my hand across the table, and you squeezed it but proved me wrong. My mind was spiraling, my heart, unstable. ____________________...
