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Cafe

Leave me alone in here.

I feel whole without you.

In here, at this wooden table of a rustic cafe

Filled with chattering and clunking forks

of couples hooking into their eggs and their wheat.

Couples of men and women, looking at each other.

Do they feel sorry for me?

Do they question their togetherness as I watch them eat their flimsy food?

No, it's all me,

I am sorry I am not a couple.

I am sorry I do not know why.

And I do not want a fork today.

It's sharp claws hurt my teeth.

It's metal is cold, and offends my tongue these days.

It's food is not enough for me anymore.

I want to bite into today, and decadently swallow my loneliness.

Relish it and fill myself up with that muse in the corner.

She is the cook today.

The cook is rather interesting.

His face lights up when he recognizes me.

I like it. Maybe I confirm his greasy solitude with my arrogance

To really be here.

Alone and everyday.

I am embarrassed to be here again.

I will stand up to myself.

I do have my armor.

I pull it out in the form of a black and blue volume

full of music and words.

The cook, he is wearing a soviet-red shirt.

A cocky baseball hat.

He reminds me of someone I loved.

Someone I love still.

Ah, I thought I was over these boys.

These boys with no certainty and no pavement in front of them

Theses men who are curious enough to stay boys.

Thank me, then.

I am not over these boys.

I am open for word and caress dealings by a river or in the woods,

Or in a prelude to a poem at this rustic table, to beautiful silence.


Sasha Lipskaia adventures in art

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