"cappuccinos" poems
When she held me, I felt like an earthquake,
shrapnel cutting quick to the bone.
I’m disaster, an unknown
kind of danger is the most dangerous
When he held me, I felt like a riptide,
all control ran out the door.
With the *** and cappuccinos
I felt out of place in my new home
When she held me, I felt disgusting,
every move my own betrayal.
Yes, she hurt like a gunshot
but I did this to myself
When he held me, I felt strange,
like I should give my whole self.
He never asked, I’m thankful.
I don’t want to ruin everything else
When she held me, I felt like a secret,
like I was something small and wild.
In a room of screaming children,
we were something invincible
He never held me, but that’s alright.
Someone tell him I understand.
Take it slow, like we’re new friends.
I’m alive for once
No one touch me, I don’t want it.
Stop breathing down my neck.
My throat fills with *****
But the hands never rest
No one touch me, leave me alone.
Stop pressing on my back.
There are thumbprints on my wrist bones
and handprints on my thighs
Don’t touch me when you aren’t here.
So many years have passed.
Is it trauma? I don’t care.
The filthy feeling always lasts
Don’t touch me when you aren’t here.
Nobody ever has to know.
When you’re sitting by your lonesome
Nobody cares, you’re on your own
Nobody cares, you’re on your own
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.
There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.
There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.
The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.
There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.
There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.
There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.
There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.
But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
Let's go get high on caffiene and drunk off each other.
Lets spend hours in coffee shops, with nothing in our stomaches but butterflies and my cappuccinos and your lattes. Let's become giddy and delusional and find everything amusing and not be able to do anything but laugh.
Lets drink and drive as we ride around to exciting places. With every turn down a new curvy road you'll travel deeper down the curvy roads of my mind. Ill become intoxicated and weak and you'll become more and more charming as with each turn we'll fall deeper into a drunken memory.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
people build
their homes
out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill
by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed
from the color of the walls
and state of the floor
right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap
and the way the words
come out of their mouths
*i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap
tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out*
and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast
the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway
with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives
yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window
*your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night*
and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter
*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side*
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
Vivienne Westwood
Always wears Chinos
By Moschino
When making Cappuccinos
And insists all that drink
The aforementioned fare
Wear clothes
Adorned with safety pins
And have blond spiky hair.
Vivienne rarely makes Cappuccinos.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
*(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist.)*
intensely greased
plastic hair
secondhand green day
coldplay in the rain
i love the sound
that waxed paper
deli sheets make
and i could choke
on a glassed reflection
of celery salts and windex.
*(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist
because when i look into
my eyes i see someone else)*
i'm not catholic
and do not
understand who
st. peter is
but i wonder if he won't let
us into heaven because we're
failures or if we're failures
because he won't let us into heaven
*(i'm 42% sure
i don't exist
and questioning how
bad hell can really be.)*
too quiet for a saturday
i wrote the word
decaf so many times i
forgot how to spell it
decaf
decaf
decaf
decaf
*(does decaf
have two f's?
because i don't have
two f's to give anymore
i mean i would but
i can't even find
vowels much less
extra consonants)*
when i was a child
i always counted in
mississippis
now that i'm older i
find myself counting in
cappuccinos
i dreamed my
legs were bleeding
and i remembered
that they're not
i want so badly
just to sleep in
a bag of crystallized
ginger and swim
in a mixing bowl of
tasteless tea.
*(i can't tell what's
real anymore
but i'm 42%
sure that i am not.)*
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Hello.
Good evening and welcome back
This is tonight’s program
The air is ripe
Ripe with social abundance
And whimsical latte grooves
A warmth in the air
It caresses your body, this warmth
It walks by your side, this warmth
It’s there holding your hand
Knowing that you’re alone
Because this isn’t the same warmth of a
person’s hand
But this comfort, this invisible hand, this invisible other
Is the warmth of the free midnight air
The city lights: fluorescent metal plants with flashing neon insects and prowling jungle dwellers
The soft ambient jazz that plays from the dripping rain.
Giving your life the harmony of passion
The melody of joy
But with the rhythms of melancholy
A lone phrase that passes by each composition
Your world goes black and white
Full becomes hollow
Radiant becomes dull
Trust becomes deception
Love becomes hate
Life becomes death
The rain intensifies with translucent color
Reflecting the street illumination of grandeur
and sensual subtlety
Urban poetry doused by mythic ambition
Perplexing the eyes of the unknowing artist
Raising the half full glass to the half empty person
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear
You are that much closer to your reflective self
The part of you that will never leave the gaze of reflective surfaces
There when you look away from your noon time coffee on the café window
There when your mind wonders away from your spouses’ arguing; the mirror behind them
There on the puddles on the asphalt and street corners, asking you with voiceless faces
‘Where are you now?”
“Is this the dream of God subconscious?”
“Is God asleep? Is this all just a dream of something bigger than us/’
Having a conversation with your reflection can turn out to be quite enlightening.
This program is brought to you by the following sponsors; Oatmeal, tea leaves, voiceover actors, large print books, Lucretius, Bill Shakespeare, handmade leather wallets, chocolate kisses, long hair, motorcycles, Frank Gambale, Daft Punk, Martin Scorsese, Goya, Kevin Smith, Evan Rachel Wood, Jones Soda, Cappuccinos and all the little people (excluding mole people…they know why.)
Please swing by again.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
Curled up in the passenger side, my moccasins rested on the edge of the seat.
Projecting heat pleaded the piercing winter from under my skin.
My chin fell slowly as ash insulated my heart.
My lips would part as second-hand soothing soot
Grew arms and cradled my soul like the look
A newborn baby receives when wrapped in adoration.
A suffocation as an indication I was not alone.
Strangers. Soaring together for forty-eight hours.
Oblivious to dangers our adolescent wings never noticed.
Our only focus was on each other.
At first, words of conversation refused to be discovered.
But all at once we slowly uttered
Our pasts until his demons appeared in front of me.
Surprised I could still see through the windshield ahead,
I did not dread the broken being to my left.
Because who was I to judge the stranger
Who’d unknowingly love me as if his life depended on it?
Have you ever been in love with a Thunderbird?
One that flies solely in winter blizzards?
Fueled by chain-smoking cigarettes
And Dunkin Donut cappuccinos with five sugars.
It never once regarded the threat
Of driving through life
At ninety-five miles per hour.
I fell in love at six in the morning, wearing a borrowed jacket.
Coated in sleep’s drowsiness, we floated on clouds,
Dodging white paper coral trees and buried houses.
I fell in love when the world stood still
And the snow descended along with our sanity.
Somehow a Thunderbird granted me amnesty from myself.
As humanity remained asleep, with stealth
We drifted through back roads in horrific elegance
That jostled my brain until my mind was rewired to my heart
And has remained that way since.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
"plan a" was to be cordial:
you said, "coexist."
we toasted with our cappuccinos,
"to coexisting," before replacing our masks.
smile. wave. be polite.
I suppose some dozen missteps by me rendered this plan
useless.
"plan b" is much harder.
put your hand on the table.
the knife comes down, quick,
press the hot metal to the wound.
amputate. cauterize.
use your friends as a tourniquet,
like the one I've been twisting you into for the last year
and a half.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
the donkeys bray
and panic
when bricks
fly through
bank windows.
gobsmacked,
the ***** ogle
the trashed Starbucks
and ask,
"but...who will serve us
cappuccinos?"
the elephants intone,
"violence is never the answer"
and neglect to add
that's why they pilot
remote-operated
predator drones:
you won't see those stomped
in the elephants' stampede.
their ***** wars are covert.
peace cannot interrupt
the cash-flow.
as pigs fit armor over
bellies buttressed
by doughnuts,
they stare down
the wolf pack—a bloc
awash in black—
and slap their sticks
in primitive percussion
shouting, "do not resist,"
punctuating the order
with concussion grenades
and tear gas.
the wolves howl back, "no cops,
no KKK, no fascist USA!"
equal parts bark and bite
in the fight for humanity,
solidarity with the least of these,
laughing in the face of the State.
each time the wolves show their teeth,
the pigs shrink back
and quiver in fear,
while the wolves roar,
"refugees are welcome here!"
we will make racists
afraid again.
antifa, here to stay
so long as there remain
Nazis to punch in the face.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
The law says: every action must be accompanied by a reaction.
So when I slipped out of bra and ******* and spread myself open on the kitchen floor,
I expected that he would at least put down the crossword puzzle. No response, though.
I rose up and emptied the saucepan over him.
I went on a course: 'Poetry-writing for beginners'.
I made my similes illuminate the dark, like phosphorus flares.
My metaphors danced the can-can, naked, around the market square.
The teacher said: "Yes, very clever dear. But your imagery clothes a void,
Where the poet's deepest thoughts and feelings should be".
That was when I unstoppered the nitric acid bottle. She will probably keep the sight in one eye.
I joined my local writers' discussion group. At the last meeting, this was the consensus:
Music was subordinating sense; my attempt at profundity was just a lazy mysticism.
They suggested flushing out the drivel from the windmills of my mind.
I added bleach to their cappuccinos. They were left speechless.
I looked in Yellow Pages, and found a personal poetry trainer.
He said, "From now on, you let other people see your poetry only when I say you may.
I shall hold you back until every cadence convinces;
Until I hear the extraordinary, the important and the authentic sing from the bedside table."
Eventually, we were both satisfied.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:37 AM UTC
He brought me 76 roses
One for each sunrise we’ve seen
The snow falling
Not in unique patterns
But awkward clumps
But I like them that way
They seem more real
And with him
I hoped everything was real
He brought me to an art gallery
Where we carefully took notes
Graphite stained hands
Touched and shared thoughts
On this painting and that
Joking at our intellectuality
And he bought me a poster
Of Dali’s Persistence of Memory
And an ebony frame
Which he helped me put up
Onto my wall
Above my bed
So I could see it each day
As the flowers bloomed
Outside
In August was waves
Where we held hands
Perfectly sculpted for one another
And watched waves roll by
And sand tickle toes
Not a word exchanged
No need for it
Our scents mixing
Into the fresh air
Billowing by
A hint of lemonade
And beer from down the way
He took me on a picnic
In the middle of October
We sat under the stars
While the trees carefully
Cried tears of leaves
On us
Entwining us
Bonding us into one
As we covered ourselves in blanket
A makeshift house
To guard us against all
And we could hide away
Just the two of us
Winter came once more
Lights dangling on front doors
And that night
He took me to a café
And we sat until 2am
Reading our novels
Though it was hard to concentrate
So instead we ordered
Cappuccinos
And talked the night away
About nothing and everything
While snow fell
Not in unique patterns
But awkward clumps
But I like them that way
They seem more real
And with him
I hoped everything was real
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Closing time.
Cold marble steps, brisk evening air.
Small cappuccinos,
hot chocolate with cream you didn't ask for.
The Canadian Embassy
casting glittering lights across the fountain waters.
Faint indigo sky,
laughing about the Renaissance,
falling asleep on the Bakerloo.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
A crowded café, bustling, boisterous, filled with jocular
talk and the ardent gossip of young men and women,
a salesman’s smarmy sincerity, and the deft, placid
intonations of desire over two cappuccinos with skim milk,
and she is there, in the corner, against the brick wall, sipping
unadorned Earl Grey, and then a zoom focus, her presence
enhanced, the room falls away, and the chatter quiets into a
cushioning white noise, background to the film he has constructed,
and with the leads filled, the location set, the supporting cast in place,
now, the script.
May 2, 2021
May 2, 2021 at 3:40 PM UTC
**Sorry to inform you, I have adopted you to be my teenager daughter
(I really am crazy)**
Someday we might meet,
But meantime semi-officially informing you
You've been adopted by me,
With all the rights and privileges thereof
You get to beat up on me,
When you need to beat on someone,
Like everybody needs to sometime
You get to weep on my shirt,
Cause I keep an extra nearby at all times,
In case you have teenage sadness *** blues
You can try out your poems on me,
And if they're trite, my limitless sprite,
I won't reveal, for you have a thousand more inside
My repute as dad is hardly assured,
Two sons would might give me a maybe stolid high five,
On a scale of one to no jive, premised, dads are just necessary evils.
But I am open to learning, the arduous task
Of raising a teenage daughter,
After I have my head examined
Though I am just a bunch of eclectic electrons,
I got powers a few, like making life's happiness
Hearted happier, encouraging your forays into
You-know-what,
And when tables turn, a hasty retreat you beat,
For imaginary cappuccinos and poems we will meet,
Comparing notes on who felt lousier when...
But what I can do 100% is assure you
There is no lone nor lonely daughter extant,
Your voice not just clear but soft-edged,
For I have poetically adopted you,
Here and now, assuming you sign on the
..................................................................
P.S. Someday with you I'll share my most fav poem of all times,
Entitled "Why I Always Carry Tissues"
Which by the by, I still do
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
I am like a cup of coffee
The black coffee is my soul
the cup is my body
the hot temperature is my love
the steam rising are my dreams
The sugar is my friends
the cream is my family
Leave me out too long
I start to get cold
re-heating me is like giving me a hug
reminding me that I am not alone
The spoon is my soulmate
I need him to mix the flavors
Whip cream is the blessings
I receive on a daily basis
The sprinkles on top are milestones I have reached
the scent is my voice for when I sing and when I speak
Vanilla is my favorite holidays
Chocolate is my birthday
Raspberry is my laughter
Macchiato is my sad days
Pumpkin Spice is my comfort
Peppermint is my kisses
Lattes are my poetry
Cappuccinos are my tears
Every flavor is another part of me you have to get to know first in order to like
Irish Creme is my hello
Hot chocolate is my goodbye
I am brewed every minute of everyday
I am well loved by everybody
I can warm you up and make you feel alive
just like a cup of coffee
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
Just touched down from Darwin,
2 hour layover in Sydney & I’m starvin’,
met a girl at the airport,
and invited her to dinner,
they say there’s no such thing as a free lunch,
but I’ve got a credit card that let’s me dine,
at almost any restaurant in any country,
on any continent in any dateline,
so I often invite,
beautiful girls and other fellow travelers,
to dine with me as my guest for free,
where we share stories over appetizers,
more peace stories than war stories,
more love than hate,
because when you really get to know someone,
you find you differ in less ways than you relate,
anyways,
there we were,
both on rest stops till our next stop,
two world travelers,
I’d noticed an engagement ring,
more than a modest sized rock,
but I noticed the finger on which it sat,
made the look a bit odd,
see she wore the ring,
on her middle finger instead of her ring finger,
so it was more of a fck you instead of a love you,
I asked her if there was a reason for this position,
she said it was because,
it simply didn’t fit on her ring finger,
that it was a simple mix up that was it but,
I suspected there was a reason that was deeper,
so I questioned her intentions,
why was she with this man but still acting like a free woman,
why was she speaking of “exploding like a volcano!”,
when she sees a man and feels an attraction,
about how she had a fantasy,
of meeting a beautiful Australian man,
on a beach and he’d teach her to surf,
and she’d ride his surfboard from the wave to the sand,
this was when I decided to speak up,
to tell her I didn’t think this engagement would work out,
that maybe tying the knot with a man was already a dad,
was not the best idea for a woman with no kids that liked to go out,
that maybe I was in a way,
an Angel of Divine Intervention,
and how every moment of our lives,
had led us up to that instant,
I told her no man owned her,
that her body was hers alone to control,
that life is too short to compromise,
that there is no moment other than now,
I told her that that was the reason,
that I didn’t have a wife,
because there are many women I love,
and to love only one wouldn’t be right,
how can I tell one of my lovers,
that she’s better than all the rest,
how can I tell any of the others,
that they’re not as good as the one that I’m with,
I can’t,
because love is not confined into the body of one,
love is free to love and do what love does,
and with that we finished our tapas,
and finished our rendezvous with cappuccinos and hugs,
back into the world,
back into the embrace of another lover,
back into the future,
to make more memories with more women at more dinners…
∆ LaLux ∆
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
i ache for the dimly lit late night cafes with wine bottles on the walls
and foamy brown cappuccinos on the tables.
i lust after the nameless, elegant dishes
and the martinis
and the sophistication.
you are wendy's at midnight
a chain restaurant on our anniversary.
practicality.
i want mindless rewards without guilt.
i want cafes and restaurants no one outside of this town has heard of
i want to be what i am:
twenty years old
fresh off the french coffee press
ready to sweep my way through all the archetypes i have observed longingly.
you're seven years too late, darling.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
I remember so many warm moments
Like chatting over coffee in the rain
Under an umbrella on the boulevard
It hurts to know we won’t do that again.
We will never again go to a buffet
And eat all the expensive stuff up,
Avoiding bread and pasta as filling
And then sit and drink cocoa by the cup.
I remember when we walked together
Along the shore, a perfect place to be,
The two of us sharing old-time stories
Of what had happened to you and to me.
We caught each other up on the news
Of things that each did not yet know.
Not just the tales of disgust or glory
From the old days so very long ago.
I remember how easily you laughed
At the jokes I had saved up to tell.
The sound was always a happy one
With the undertone of a tinkling bell.
And when I made up stories about
People that walked down the street
You always lightly poked my shoulder;
Chided me that I needed to be sweet.
I remember that it was good to be there,
Seeing your warm smile that truly glowed.
I remember people looking at us, grinning
At two people, happy beside the busy road.
It was that kind of scene for us, it’s true.
Two people sharing cappuccinos that day;
A memory that still resides within me.
A gift you left me before you passed away.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Henry sipping his latte,
spied a girl with a dog
across the way,
small dog
sitting on her lap.
His group sipped
and chattered;
he studied her
as she waited
for some other dame
to bring their drinks.
The dog moved
on her lap,
rising up
her short blue skirt.
He looked away,
a member
of his group
asked about
an item of news
seen in the paper
which one of them held:
some financial deal
or war unending
in some far off land,
and talked of other things
that seemed more at hand.
But instinct urged him
to glance back at the dame
with the mutt on her lap.
Her friend had brought
the two cappuccinos
and put them down,
an older dame,
mother or aunt
or mother-in-law,
and the dame sat down
and the girl put
the dog down
to the ground.
Henry glanced
at the already risen
short blue skirt,
to see if she
pulled it down,
but she didn't,
she sipped her drink
chatting away.
Fine thighs
met his eyes,
two to gaze at
and dream of
what lay beyond
the borders
of the skirt's cloth.
But the group’s talk
had reached a peak
and his involvement
was desired,
so he looked away,
his fires alight,
his engines fired.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
I never knew my father, but I see him pass in every window reflection. Collar turned to the wind, he bumbles towards the book store with a coffee shop upstairs. I'm entombed in literature and fellow hermits. We become non-existence for all moments but this; as we hunch over scalding cappuccinos, eyes darting to each other semi-covertly, for once hopeful of human contact.
I never knew my father. He died of lung cancer before memories bloomed, in the space between the womb and indoctrination. All traces of him are left in trinkets, soap-preserved hair fibres in a shaving mug, and ripples of gravitational waves. He tells me that I have a place, without ever saying a word. And, he never tells me off for smoking.
I never knew my father. He was a military man and belonged to the Salvation Army. I don't think we'd see eye-to-eye now, but perhaps he would have saved me from my artist's starvation; with my bleeding heart pouring pointlessly into each and every gutter. I would have walked with more of a stride than a fluster, and call out names to the streets, without ever caring for consequence.
I never knew my father, but I met him once. I met him in the caverns of mind, as I swung around with a flashlight; hoping to find meaning in meditation. He held my shoulders as I fell to sobs, as I told him I missed him, as I told him I was lost. To that he just smiled and said:
“You're already there.”
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
Document steals business,
and we're just hanging,
improving our cappuccinos...
Would you like some pistachio cake?
Do you drink?
If I'm going to spend $6000 on liquor,
it might as well be at the same two places.
See, I could never do that.
I'm terrible with computers.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 12:32 PM UTC