What's your name, coffee man, whose hands feel the tremble of hot burbling bubbles from beneath a metal jug? What's your name? I'd like to know out of the purest curiosity, your passion for the viscosity of milk. Your views – or animosities – towards patrons, or the silt that accumulates on your bench demanding varying degrees, varieties, coffees, teas. Boy oh boy, coffee man, how unassuming you seem, given all the things you've seen.
You're so troubled you need to brood, artfully, so others see a mystery in the lit tip of your cigarette – in the hazy pirouette you've woven with your lips. You're so complicated you singe your lungs and burn your veins, stain your hair with the smell of disdain. You're so disengaged, delicately estranged, taking puffs and leaning on walls to have people ponder on your jilted ways – the handsome one who's not the same; tortured and damaged, with no one to blame.
It brews in my belly; caustic fumes rising with sights on my throat. Constricting my tongue with a fastening rope. It makes me weak, trying to speak. Tears couple as they catch on my cheek. Quivering speech that breaks in trembles; I resemble a quaking, shaking mess. It pains me that I can't love you less.
Every pair I see walking the streets – fingers laced, strides steadied by the same pace – can't possibly all be in love. Some inhale the warmth of another breathing the same desperate complacency. Others dwell in the attention, accepting unfulfilled affection – emotions derived from the self, projected, manifested, into a facade of fondness. Mostly, the lovers I see, love only selfishly. Fall in love with me for what it brings and lament over what it strips. Indulge in your human condition but don't take permission to call it love.
My affection can never wane, and some days I have the urge to express, or digress, that I miss you... But for what? There's nothing to mend, no farewells to send; all's been said, so I'll stay quiet instead.
The beautiful thing about humanity is that, collectively, we're an endless mass – a crowd that can swallow and drown traces of existence. Persistence dulls with time, and so does patience, but I can forget you, your distinct cadence, because of all these faces.
Truth has many modes through which it can be delivered, both gently and in ways that cut and scissor. The truth isn't always best to hear, or tell, and honest people often dwell on whether or not it's right to pour over someone exactly what they've felt. The number of times I've tried to craft my words so as not to hurt and burn, is abnormally trivial. There's a trick to balancing tact – delivering fact without vitriol and keeping relevance intact. Honestly, in most cases, honesty is most likely your best option. The tricky part is that it's frighteningly (and rightfully) difficult to deliver lightly and politely. The body seizes at verbalising thoughts it can never undo, and what's worse about them, is that they're painfully true.
Shell
(via wnq-writers)
Empty home’s hollow with breaks and waves resounding through. Wind moves and whistles too. Everyone withdrew out of your chaos – out of you.
I hate to feel better after caffeine – it seems my body screams at me until I bring the stuff to my lips and suckle the elixir for its chemical hit. I hate to rely on its sustenance! It's rather pointless don't you think? Beans picked from trees with frothy milk? My soy latte is nothing but a frivolous habit that tastes like liquid silk.
They all say to give it a while – a little time, and day by day, slowly, I should forget your name. Day by day, slowly, you'll fade away and the pain will disperse, dissolve into an array of follies. But, little by little, slowly, I feel it seep deeper and stain. Little by little, slowly, yet today I feel the same.
My favourite, little, friend, you were always more. We can’t pretend to ignore what's lurking at the door. I have cried, numerous times, at the thought of you absent in my life. But, favourite, little friend, please don’t shed your tears, I’ll always be yours, regardless of the years.
truthintales (via wnq-writers)
I followed an auburn trail of scatterings. Trees littering my path with their confetti flittering from above. My shoes kick through mounds of the stuff, pounding on a pavement that is lost. I'm astray in Autumn unprepared for the frost.
I wake but I fold – lapse back into sleep. It's cold, and the weather outside, too bleak. I wake nonetheless, upright and half asleep. My mind won't release, won't cease its dreams. I'm awake but I merely wish to sleep. It's dark out now, the day has made me weak. I'm awake. Upon my pillow, I try to sleep. Now night's too bright and silence too complete.
I wake to each day, framed by points of emotion, the lines between defined by conscious commotion. But when I sleep the lines deplete and my dreams are left to make sense of the points my subconscious has kept.
My love, you’re so afraid of mine. I might brush words so sweet against your cheek… My tongue adores you while we speak… But as thoughts begin to creep you peel away; darling, we both know how good it feels to stay. Almost in a fright, you take flight. But my love, I promise it’s alright – my affection doesn’t bite. I’ll protect you with all my might if you’re ever inclined to stay the night…
