Birthday on Market Street

We sat in crooked wooden chairs and watched a man mumble to himself and another wipe his nose against the sleeve of his Disney themed sweatshirt. Quite a paradox seeing such a hardened man adorned with childhood characters.

Blue Angel Cafe

I wonder if he reminisces about that old-fashioned fireplace, made of stones and warmth, that smelled of forgotten forests and stoic pine trees. Does he still taste white chocolate whenever he smells the faint scent of caffeine? Does he know how his eyes shined as he rested his feet atop the lacquered benches, and how much I was falling for him amidst the snow and shadows?

Breakfast in Bed

I quite like the smell of your bed sheets, pairs of toes and fingers laced in silk. Hazel crystals of playful tenderness, they sweep me up into a mouthful of whispers.