I. love. cafes.
The smell of coffee sticking to everything, the dim lighting with spots of brightness from flickering candles, the shadows cast upon the wall.
The low voices murmering to each other in Hungarian, a language that tastes like dark chocolate melting on the tongue.
There is a reason poets spend so much time in cafes. Not calling myself a poet, necessarily, but I do find inspiration in them.
Chilis Csokolades
Chocolate sticks to the throat, sweet,
hot, thick. I drink from
the glass.
He drinks as well, a richer
communion.
Tiny bee stings trickle down our throats.
We gasp as
One.
The Table
Empty ash tray, green grains
of the beneath wood.
Amorphous wax a white, flaky crust, like
the cake of soap washing away in my
morning bath.
I pick at it with my nails.
The smell of booze, lingering, antiseptic,
cleans away the open lacerations
of hundreds, bleeding across
its surface. The scratches
of ten thousand nails, etching
Names. Initials.
The voices of the dead trapped within the planks.
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