Promiscuity: Part Three of The Cafe Journals

Let’s talk about 11:00 AM and prostitutes. The stain on the Earth’s surface, the vermin of society. They belong in the piss saturated alleys or on the street corners with their easy legs parted for the next meal ticket. Continue reading

Loss: part two of The Cafe Journals

        She’s got a heavy heart
a messy soul
a reckless mind

And I think it’s beautiful the way she carries herself

 

There is a girl sitting at a table at 12:34 AM with a cup of cold half-drunk tea in it. The tabletop is laminated and smooth, with a tacky design covered in stains dried through the plastic. A reflection of the Diner itself. There is a crack on the saucer and the damp tea bag bleeds orange onto the table, its yellow tag drowns in its own life.
there is a girl sitting at a table at 12:35 AM with a cup of cold tea and she is conversing with her demons. Its right there, in those drifting grey eyes of hers. That look. The one you see at the back seat of silent wedding halls. The ones you see burrowing into the fresh earth of a grave. The one of loss and regret and she wore these looks with the same ceremony the bride wears the dress and the corpse; its death. Continue reading

Tragedy: part one of the Cafe Journals

For the past Six years, a family of four frequented the diner.

There was a tiny black haired three year old boy with striking brown eyes and a habit for knocking over cherry milkshakes. His sister, five, was no better with the salt. They took after the father in the way of hair color but everything else was their mothers. The bow shaped lips, the slight tilt of their eyes and the deep dimple. Continue reading