treatswords

“We don’t have anymore tea bags, so I stewed you up a craft.”

Our waitress says, setting down a clay pot of blueberry tea.

And there you are.

Admiring the Middle Aged man playing the saxophone. You sway, allowing the music to twist you, like a flag in the wind.

Your honey eyes drip into my steaming cup. I stir you in, making sure I get every last drop.

A royal blue couch sits in the center of the room. People shuffle past it, tea spilling ever so slightly on the sleeves of their coats.

I imagine you sinking into the scratchy fabric. Loose strands of your coarse beard settling in-between the cushions.

A hint of you, left in this blue.

If only every cafe had the chance to collect the humble strands of you. Your bursts of creativity, your deep sensitivity, the way your eyes haze over, toasted yellow, whenever you look at me.

I sip my tea, watching you scribble away on paper. Your mind drudging up something dreary, something cold, something blue.

I feel selfish that I am taking you with me when I leave. If only I could carve you into this knobby table, sharing your every groove.

Leaving a mark of hope in Cafe Blue.