"frappe" poems
Sa dami ng mga trabahong tumambak dahil hindi mo pa nagagawa
Mga papeles na nagpatung-patong na
Yung lamesa **** inaagiw na dahil hindi mo alam kung saan at paano magsisimula.
At mga istoryang di mo pa maisulat dahil nangangapa ka pa.
Isama mo na rin yung katrabaho **** nakakairita na sa tenga.
Dahil crush niya daw si Justin Bieber
At paborito niyang frappe sa Starbucks ay Caramel.
Kahit mukhang ang afford niya lang ay Nescafe “Oo nga pala, French Vanilla” na iniinom ni Toni Gonzaga.
Pero wala siyang pambili ng sarili niyang tumbler.
Tangina.
Idagdag mo pa ang mga patay na oras na sunod-sunod ang mga buntong-hininga
Nahuli ka pa ng boss mo na nakatulala
Kaya hayan at napagalitan ka pa.
At dahil contractual ka, yung limang buwan na kontrata mo
Biruin mo, baka mapaaga pa ang endo.
Aminin mo na ang pagpatak ng alas-singko
Ay may kakaibang dalang saya.
Na parang sumagot na ng “oo” yung matagal mo nang nililigawan.
Nakulayan na rin yung mga pinlano niyong outing na buong akala niyo’y hanggang drawing na lang.
Parang pagbabalik sa Pilipinas ng kasintahan **** kumayod sa ibang bansa.
Parang ibinalita sa TV na hindi traffic ngayon sa EDSA.
Himala!
Kaya ang pagsapit ng alas-singko ay kakambal ng paglaya.
Wala sa’yo kung sa bus man ay tayuan
O kaya sa dyip ay makasabit man lang.
Basta makauwi ka lang.
Nakakasabik pa rin ang ideya
Na ang bawat pag-uwi
Ay kasing banayad ng mayroong sasalubong sa’yong ngiti
Mga ngiting papawi sa kangalayan ng mga binti.
Mayroong yakap na nakaabang
Ang mga bisig na nagmistulang pinakapaborito **** kulungan
Dahil doon mo nararamdaman ang tunay na kalayaan.
Mula sa pang-aalipin sa’yo ng lipunan.
Nakahain na rin ang hapunan.
“Mahal, ano ba ang ulam?”
Sabayan natin ito ng mahabang kwentuhan.
Simulan natin sa simpleng kamustahan.
Dahil pagkatapos, ay aabangan mo na naman ang alas-singko kinabukasan.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.
Logan Robertson
6/6/2018
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
i bring my notebook
into the coffee shop
writing down my
thoughts for the day
sipping on a frappe
i let my pen lead the way
writing and writing
about anything and everything
sitting in a coffee shop
with various voices
alternative music
all around me
meeting new people
focusing on my thoughts
letting the coffee fill my veins
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
Palembang 27 Maret 2017
Untuk diriku sang penikmat kopi
Aku telah bangun saat fajar masih terlelap
Kemudian aku membuka jendela agar embun menatapku
Ku biarkan tamu pagi nan sejuk menyapu rambutku yang pirang
Seketika itu aku teringat tuk menyeruput kopi di gelas favoritku
Segelas Capuccinno hangat di tanganku sekarang
Mulai ku teguk sambil ku pejamkan mata
Ku rasakan manisnya krimer di lidahku
Mengingatkanku pada kamu
Pemanis di dalam hidupku
Aku hendak bekerja seperti biasanya
Kini mentari menantangku untuk menakhlukkannya
Ku pasang perisaiku dengan lengkap
Kemudian ku berpikir tuk mendapatkan segelas Caramel Frappe tuk menyejukkan hari ini
Tak terasa mentari kini telah lelah tuk bersinar
Sehingga membuat dunia kian gelap
Aku seduh Black Coffee tanpa gula
Tak ku hiraukan rasa pahitnya ketika menyentuh lidahku
Lebih pahit mana dengan kenyataan aku hidup tanpa cintamu?
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 12:49 AM UTC
Ribble rabble rim ram
wabble wing flip do pip pop
Slipper hinder thankly to dur
jammer gamtit slingly tripon
wishel fromage wankly underwash
Rapt crapt frappe wingnut
Shmoozing rosefront biging whippoorwill
aminacry killicat deedly nono
Allah Akbar Achoo Amen
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
Fathers faking false feuds
french folk fills fun facts
fringing fat failure flips Fredricks fame
Frappe from France
Fit from Finland
Far from Fiji
Flat fix from Florida
Fini finished!
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
THE ROSES slanted crimson sobs
On the night sky hair of the women,
And the long light-fingered men
Spoke to the dark-haired women,
"Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier."
How could he sit there among us all
Guzzling blood into his guts,
Goblets, mugs, buckets-
Leaning, toppling, laughing
With a slobber on his mouth,
A smear of red on his strong raw lips,
How could he sit there
And only two or three of us see him?
There was nothing to it.
He wasn't there at all, of course.
The roses leaned from the pots.
The sprays snot roses gold and red
And the roses slanted crimson sobs
In the night sky hair
And the voices chattered on the way
To the frappe, speaking of pictures,
Speaking of a strip of black velvet
Crossing a girlish woman's throat,
Speaking of the mystic music flash
Of pots and sprays of roses,
"Nothing lovelier, nothing lovelier."
1.9k
Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.
In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.
It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.
You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.
In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.
The flavors, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.
Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.
In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back.
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
Le long du vieux faubourg, où pendent aux masures
Les persiennes, abri des secrètes luxures,
Quand le soleil cruel frappe à traits redoublés
Sur la ville et les champs, sur les toits et les blés,
Je vais m'exercer seul à ma fantasque escrime,
Flairant dans tous les coins les hasards de la rime,
Trébuchant sur les mots comme sur les pavés,
Heurtant parfois des vers depuis longtemps rêvés.
Ce père nourricier, ennemi des chloroses,
Eveille dans les champs les vers comme les roses ;
Il fait s'évaporer les soucis vers le ciel,
Et remplit les cerveaux et les ruches de miel.
C'est lui qui rajeunit les porteurs de béquilles
Et les rend gais et doux comme des jeunes filles,
Et commande aux moissons de croître et de mûrir
Dans le coeur immortel qui toujours veut fleurir !
Quand, ainsi qu'un poète, il descend dans les villes,
Il ennoblit le sort des choses les plus viles,
Et s'introduit en roi, sans bruit et sans valets,
Dans tous les hôpitaux et dans tous les palais.
2k
La porte qui claque
A creusé un trou
Plus noir que noir
Dans le silence
De ta mémoire.
Le silence qui frappe -
Qui luit partout -
Quand vient le soir,
Il plaie les panses
Et te rend fou.
Ces plaies ouvertes
Se taisent et pleurent;
Le vacarme discret
Te couvre de secousses
Et disparaît.
Enveloppé dans tes draps,
La lumière devenue ligne,
Une porte entre-ouverte -
Tu voudrais qu'elle t’explique
Cet état d'alerte.
Le temps fait violence
Mais s'apaise comme le vent.
Très vite tu t'endors,
Et les mots se font tendre
Arrivé à bon port.
La veille se couvre d'un voile
Enroulé sur tes nuits.
Toujours l'éclat de noirceur
Qui alors t'attaqua
Luira sur ta vie.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 2:05 AM UTC
outside, my
professor lights a pipe beside the daffodils,
and we make small talk about the cigarette butts in the dirt
and the history of natural science.
He travelled south in a small blue wagon,
for no particular reason
except the summers are dry
and the air is silent,
….
inside mould grows on glass
windows, wood rotting damp
dissipates the rain through its splinters
cracked rooms containing muses, alight
with the glow of creation, reinvention
I am taught to eat with chopsticks at a fast food restaurant
each Friday night; I learn
to break them in two before I eat,
dissect myself in certain manners of precision
indulge in cakes with sprinkles
spires
lining streets
the lamps in the evening
dull for flashes of traffic
souls in sachets about to be added
in a hot drink, or instant frappe
we dissolve
into particles
about
the place in
certain manners of precision
break in two before
we indulge
impart
chromosomes collaborate
in the rooms,
in the mage’s quarters
dollar bills are sniffed and sorted
LSD and Ecstasy crossed, contorted
butterflies have patterns in conversations
on their wings, in teacups, sipping Spanish ***
drag my son up a hill to **** him,
in the ash tree foliage, faces in the sky
and ask of grace
deliver me to the divine class of men
what am I if only captive to contagion?
After all, I spread across windows
like mould each hour multiplying
to become sporadic, spatial,
discovering the heart’s variation
insofar as we are variable
asking Sophie, my daughter, to empty
the dishwasher, I pray she wonders
why we have cups
of coins in our pockets
why we ache
atoms
about
the place in
certain manners of precision
break in two before
we indulge
impart
chromosomes collaborate
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
I leaned my bike up against the gate and
Sighed.
Leaning against the window was the girl
thee girl
The girl with her usual
Frappe in hand
And book in the other.
Her flowing red hair
And glasses
With bright pearls brimming and
Shining against her pink lips.
Her face
Fair and clean
Rosy cheeks and
A smile.
Her clothes
Grey beanie
Flowy top
Jeans and
Combat boots.
Rings and
Jewelry galore
And
Even some tattoos.
shes perfect
I think to myself as I
Picked my bike back up and
Started riding away.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
remember who you was
and remember who you wouldn't
remember if you Should'ave
and remember if you Couldn't
the things that happened Yesteryear
are gone like yesterday
the things that will
tomorrow
you could drink in a Frappe
ask the happy What Not
he was gone, like yesterday
the things that will tomorrow
are now gone
like Ice Capades
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
You say you know me,
But you don’t know me because you tried,
You know me because I made myself known.
You only know my favorite flowers are lilacs because
I’d make you stop your truck so I could pick them off of strangers’ yards
You only know my favorite color is yellow because
I’d pick up yellow paint shades every time you dragged me to Lowe’s
You only know I love the smell of cigarettes and coffee because
I’d breathe in deeply the combination of their aromas,
With a Marlboro on one hand and a frappe on the other.
And anything that I cannot show you
You cannot know, because
You cannot look into my eyes and
See what lies behind them.
You say you know me, but
Do you really?
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
Transferred attention some where else
Then lost my train of thought,
Added an item to my list
Of stuff I should have bought.
Forgot to say those silly things
That make it all worth while,
And found myself in jockey shorts
With a lost and vacant smile.
Left the toothbrush in the toilet
And the razor in the lounge,
Fed the dog the ****** cat food
And the goldfish had to scrounge.
Woke up early on the weekend
And slept in late for work,
Is it really any wonder
That my wife has gone beserk ?
Distracted moments come and go
As life progresses on,
But in these periods of bewilderment
Have I come or have I gone ?
The confusion is annoying
It's like emerging from the mist
And embarrassed explanations
Leave my kid's expression ******
Conversations breeze along
I'm having trouble with the terms
The children utter gibberish
Which I've no desire to learn.
My old friends speak in whispers
Quite impossible to hear
And the clink of moving cutlery
Keeps dinner parties from my ear.
I guess a change is needed
Maybe, a less demanding day,
Where physicality is really secondary
Where exhaustion doesn't play.
Where the bodies limitations
Are tempered to the task
And a moderated output
Is, perhaps, the best that you can ask.
I've lost my sense of humour
The world is racing by too fast,
This mobile phone's a nightmare
And ****** TV remotes I'm past.
And whatever happened to coffee
At my favourite Bridge cafe ?
Now the order is for decaff,
No cream, half strength, moccha frappe !!
Age is such a ******
It's asset is it's stealth,
One moment you're a titan
The next you've lost your health.
One moment you've got flowing locks
The next you're bald and grim,
Is it any ****** wonder
That growing old is such a sin.
Marshalg
Grumping@theBach
Mangere Bridge
10 August 2009
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
I recall, caramel mocha frappe
Taste was good and that's about all
I recall, delusional chemistry
Breaking up seven times and making up six.
I recall, English 101
Meant to be in high school but stuck in eighth grade with me.
I recall, A Wing
An Amazon
I recall, freshman orientation
Handprint staircases
I recall, Spanish class
Skipping lunch to digest some knowledge in the biblioteca
I recall, Chick Fil A in a mall
Back of a car with a handful
I recall, sneaking out with the boys
Upset over Pink Floyd for the wrong reasons
I recall, a trip down memory lane
Writing a poem
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 5:52 AM UTC
(À Brunette, le chien de Sophie.)
Objet si cher à ma Sophie,
Toi que nourrit sa belle main,
Toi qui passes toute ta vie
Entre ses genoux et son sein ;
Que ton sort, heureuse Brunette,
Hélas ! est différent du mien !
En amant elle traite un chien,
En chien, c'est l'amant qu'elle traite.
Et pourtant, cette préférence
Qui peut te l'obtenir sur moi ?
Ai-je moins de persévérance,
Moins de fidélité que toi ?
De mes fers **** que je m'échappe,
Enchaîné sans aucuns liens,
Toujours battu, toujours je viens
Baiser cette main qui me frappe.
Le pur sentiment qui m'enflamme
Vaut ton instinct, s'il ne vaut mieux ;
Et le feu qui brûle en mon âme
Vaut le feu qui brille en tes yeux :
Mais près de ma beauté suprême
Je suis trop coupable en effet,
Quand je hais tout ce qu'elle hait,
De n'aimer pas tout ce qu'elle aime.
Dans le dépit qui me transporte,
Souvent je ne connais plus rien.
Le grelot que Brunette porte
Serait mieux à mon cou qu'au sien.
Soins, constance, pleurs, sacrifice,
Je vous crois perdus sans retour :
Je n'espère plus de l'amour ;
Mais j'espère encor du caprice.
Écrit en 1792.
1.1k
It is now 1:06am and
i couldn't sleep.
As cliche as this might be,
It's you who i keep on thinking.
How your pretty smile shapes up so perfectly,
How your exciting laughter fills up the universe so beautifully,
It is hard for me to keep up with your pace at this rate, you know.
They said wishful thinking is a vengeance and i am both a wisher and a thinker.
I wish I was that caramel frappe you held,
I wish it's was my heart that you held so carefully, effortlessly.
I once told you that you're a masterpiece and indeed, you surely are.
I wonder if you think that you're cute as hell when you questioned things, when you asked me those numerical parts of the world.
I wonder if you think you're sweet as hell when you look puzzled trying to solve the maze, when you pleaded for help in deciphering the mystery.
I wonder if you think you will fall for me and i bet that you don't.
Now tell me how do i love you when i dont know how to start? For it's never a right thing to fall and it will never be.
So I'll just let these feelings fade away, away into the darkness.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
Un jardinier, dans son jardin,
Avait un vieux arbre stérile ;
C'était un grand poirier qui jadis fut fertile :
Mais il avait vieilli, tel est notre destin.
Le jardinier ingrat veut l'abattre un matin ;
Le voilà qui prend sa cognée.
Au premier coup l'arbre lui dit :
Respecte mon grand âge, et souviens-toi du fruit
Que je t'ai donné chaque année.
La mort va me saisir, je n'ai plus qu'un instant,
N'assassine pas un mourant
Qui fut ton bienfaiteur. Je te coupe avec peine,
Répond le jardinier ; mais j'ai besoin de bois.
Alors, gazouillant à la fois,
De rossignols une centaine
S'écrie : épargne-le, nous n'avons plus que lui :
Lorsque ta femme vient s'asseoir sous son ombrage,
Nous la réjouissons par notre doux ramage ;
Elle est seule souvent, nous charmons son ennui.
Le jardinier les chasse et rit de leur requête ;
Il frappe un second coup. D'abeilles un essaim
Sort aussitôt du tronc, en lui disant : arrête,
Ecoute-nous, homme inhumain :
Si tu nous laisses cet asile,
Chaque jour nous te donnerons
Un miel délicieux dont tu peux à la ville
Porter et vendre les rayons :
Cela te touche-t-il ? J'en pleure de tendresse,
Répond l'avare jardinier :
Eh ! Que ne dois-je pas à ce pauvre poirier
Qui m'a nourri dans sa jeunesse ?
Ma femme quelquefois vient ouïr ces oiseaux ;
C'en est assez pour moi : qu'ils chantent en repos.
Et vous, qui daignerez augmenter mon aisance,
Je veux pour vous de fleurs semer tout ce canton.
Cela dit, il s'en va, sûr de sa récompense,
Et laisse vivre le vieux tronc.
Comptez sur la reconnaissance
Quand l'intérêt vous en répond.
1.1k
Women cry,
Men die,
Children watch their parents slaughtered.
Bombs are dropped,
Homes destroyed,
Government treats us like toys.
War is won,
Was is lost?
Only the people suffer the cost.
Families forced,
To leave their land,
All for the "Greater Plan".
Soon they give the term a name,
While they tell us,
Who to blame.
Millions die,
Billions cry,
For this thing that runs us dry.
They call it war,
And it has tore,
A great hole in our land.
Each of themselves,
Calling the other one,
the ******
Men react to the call of war,
As if it were,
A cheap *****
Blindly walk into a trap,
While the politicians,
Enjoy a frappe.
Lives of men shatter to dust,
As their guns,
Begin to rust.
Missiles launched through the air,
Causing are brothers,
Great despair.
Cowards hide behind closed doors,
Avoiding the many,
Wounds of war.
Millions die,
Billions cry,
For this thing that runs us dry.
They call it war,
And it has tore,
A great hole in our land.
Each of themselves,
Calling the other one,
the ******
Left or right,
Good or bad,
Pick a side "Mother Land".
Free or whipped,
Laws or not,
Come on United States show them what you got.
Missiles missiles everywhere,
As the bystanders,
Turn and stare.
Led by the Cabinet to our doom,
As they plot the final,
"KABOOM".
Preachers preach their words of peace,
As they collect,
The hidden fees.
Millions die,
Billions cry,
For this thing that runs us dry.
They call it war,
And it has tore,
A great hole in our land.
Each of themselves,
Calling the other one,
the ******
"Peace on Earth" ain't so simple
"War on Earth" is a lot more pinnacle.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme le vent qui souffle
Par terre, qui me frappe
À cœur, qui me soulève
Et me jete au ciel,
Où les nuages me caressent le visage
Et me disent des mots
D'amour et gentillesse,
De force et de jeunesse.
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme les arbres qui grossissent
Pour que je puisse les admirer,
Pour que je puisse les toucher,
Et sentir la soie de ses
P'tits cheveux qui restent
Dans l'air timide mais éclatant,
En attendant le couche de soleil
Qui s'avance à l'horizon.
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme les fleurs bleues et rouges
Qui balancent comme des
Spectateurs qui écoutent au musique,
Qui descendent d'espace et embrasse
La terre, et tu es comme le soleil
Qui brille sur les champs,
Qui réchauffe ma poitrine
Et me caresse les lèvres.
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme l'air frais en descendant
Le soleil, comme l'orange du ciel
Qui se couvre le monde,
Comme l'odeur souple des pommes
Qui accrochent des branches,
Comme le tranquillité de ne rien se passer.
Tu es comme le printemps,
Comme la nuit qui s'approche
Les villes et les campagnes,
Comme les étoiles qui
Me font penser, espérer
Que je peux t'aimer,
Ou te comprendre,
Même si le printemps devient l'hiver.
/
You're like the spring,
Like the wind that blows
Across the earth,
That knocks on my heart,
That lifts me up
And shoots me to heaven,
Where the clouds caress my face
And tell me words
Of love and kindness,
Of strength and youth.
You are like the spring,
Like the trees that grow
So that I can admire them,
So that I can touch them,
And feel the silk of their
Little hairs that sit
In the timid yet lively air,
Waiting for the sunset
That advances on the horizon.
You are like the spring,
Like the blue and red flowers
That sway like audience members
Listening to music,
Who descend from space and kiss the soil,
And you are like the sun
That shines on the fields,
That heats my chest and kisses my lips.
You are like the spring,
Like the cool air that comes
When the sun goes down,
Like the orange of the sky that covers the world,
Like the supple scent of apples
That hang from branches,
Like the peace of nothing happening.
You are like the spring,
Like the night that approaches
The cities and country-sides,
Like the stars that make me think,
Even hope that I can love you,
Or understand you,
Even if the spring becomes winter.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
Comfort
Of an afternoon nap
Sipping from a mocha frappe
Chaos
Of a lover's trap
That colors the edges of a map
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
I was cleaning my room and i found a small box with a poorly carved heart
in it were polaroids we took and a note you left me the night you left a year ago
and i began to wonder why did i keep the note
why did i keep the only reminder i have of the night i lost everything
"its not you its me" how ******* cliche
when i finished reading i felt as if i had been punched in the gut
there was just a deafening silence
3 months later i walk into the coffee shop downtown and im in the sitting area writing stupid poems and i hear a sweet and soothing voice and i glance over and the girl in the apron behind the counter has completely blown me away
i look for like 6 seconds and she looks so i look away in an instant
i come back the next day and maybe this day ill have the courage to ask her out
or just buy a coffee and not have the guts to have a conversation with her
im in the sitting area once more and i walk to the counter and ask for a frappe and you make it for me i thank you and i walk away, there goes all my courage
the cartoon devil and angel on my shoulder climb into my brain fighting over what i should do
eventually the angel won
luckily youre on break
i walk up to you and tell you my name and you tell me yours and after 10 minutes of getting to know one another i ask you out on a date and as anxiety wraps his hand around my throat you say yes and he loosens it
we plan a date for saturday night
i drive to your house and on the way on the highway a car flipped over with ambulances on the scene i hope the driver is okay
i pull into your driveway and i go to your door and you open it as im about to knock and holy **** you look so beautiful
we go to a restaurant of your choosing that ive never been to before and we talk about our childhood, and our current lives and i pay for the check and we head out
we still have time to spare so i ask if you wanna go stargazing and you happily agree
we drive up and luckily no one else is around i turn on the radio and we lay on the hood of the car and this turns into a daily thing for after our dates
a month later we're happily together as a couple and your family loves me and my family loves you and i stop by the coffee shop everyday to say hi and grab a cup of coffee
but forward to 7 months later as things went downhill
we were living together
you barely looked at me anymore
you never wanted to go on dates or stargazing
you were never in the shop when i came in as if you were hiding from me
i walked into my room and there was a note from you
you were leaving me
a year later I was cleaning my room and i found a small box with a poorly carved heart
in it were polaroids we took and a note you left me the night i found your note a year ago
and i began to wonder why did i keep the note
why did i keep the only reminder i have of the night i lost everything
"its not you its me" how ******* cliche
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
Buy me moments.
Buy me moments of frappe and cappuccino where we can have deep conversations.
Buy me moments,
Of love in whispers,
Of tea in small antique cups,
Of life away from drama.
Buy me moments,
That will make me forget materialism,
That will make me yearn for longer nights on the terrace,
Singing songs as old as the museum,
And burying ourselves away from what they call “modern and trendy”.
Buy me moments,
Enough of them,
To make me declare you as my own.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 11:53 AM UTC
I was never interested in the kind of love that takes place in the daytime. I always wanted love that hid in the shadows, because as wonderful as love can be, and often is, it hurts.
I never wanted love that could see me bleed.
Love is soft, kind, holds your hand on the porch.
Love sits with you on the swing, in the park.
Love is candlelight, chocolate, a nice dinner.
Love is holding hands and nevermind
that palms are sweaty.
Because that love is new and
nervous, and hopeful.
That love is exploration, new touches,
electric tendrils caused
by kisses on the earlobes,
on the back of the neck.
Love is an evening stroll
that leads to **********
waking in a bed that isn’t yours,
but a bed that feels safe enough
in the grey light of the pre-dawn.
And, anyway, isn’t it exciting?
This new place, this new person,
this new experience.
Love is conversation over a cup of tea,
a light breakfast, some good bread.
Love this new, this fresh, this exhilarating
won’t last, it can’t last, it’s too rich,
too many calories, too much sugar.
A love like this one is a mocha frappe.
The love I wanted was a 2:45am bedtime,
maybe a little hungover.
Maybe I’d been somewhere I shouldn’t’ve,
maybe she had.
The floor was littered
with unanswered text messages,
with missed calls that fell out
of my pockets like loose change
when I took my pants off and
hung them on the back of a chair,
too lazy to put them in the laundry.
Love that survives in these gray spaces,
maybe it’s real, maybe not, maybe it’s
mutated, adapted into a primordial
survival ignorant animal.
Love in the gray space, in the shadows,
in the storms, survives or dies,
but you, not it decides.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC