The lonely

I am not good at friends, at people. I am only good at this...pen and paper.

Who knows me, but you?  My plethora of books, generally leather bound and chicken scratched like all the others. In each one you will find the same angst, the same pain, and the same loneliness. 

It seems to be me, the lonely. Many times I love it, welcome it. It is where I can be exactly me. It is when the lonely is no longer lavender to my being, but salty leather and rusted chains that I must reach out. 

New Coffee Spot

I sit now, in a new place. The music is weird to me and the people order strange coffee I have never seen before. 

The coffee is beautiful, more sophisticated. A steamed milk heart swirls the top of my maciato, which here is a different drink than my old place. The cup is so small that my enormous hand swallows it. My dainty pinky looks so out of place when it lifts as I drink. 

I am handed a second glass, sparkling water, which is to cleanse my pallet following my maciato. It is refreshing. 

The baristas are not emo kids or random band mates working between gigs.

This place is marked by its passion...you taste it.