Sunday Morning Po!

(My first poetry-prose piece written a few years back. I tend to favor this simple write)

Weight of your feet

I remember the summer we would meet,
every Wednesday
at the diner in between our towns;
four stools and four leaning booths.

The building itself
seemed to lean into something,
never quite sure what.

Across from each other we sat,
feet touching
as hands stirred coffee
that never really cooled.

You always ordered eggs
sunny side down,
said the yellow orbs
burned your eyes.

I dipped my burnt toast
in the aftermath of your attack
as the waitress in the too tight dress
always undressed you
with her fuck me eyes

You never missed a bite,
held her gaze,
only laughed as my toast dipped harder
onto your ravaged plate.

You would read me poetry
from some obscure writer
that lived life harder than you.

I fed on your breath
and lived.
You loved me then.
I love you still.

I never eat breakfast midweek
and ride past that spot
often these days.

The building still leans
only now
in the opposite direction,
towards you.

Category : blogging, Life, Poetry
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