I pose with a book at my favorite coffee shop, not that I actually ever order a coffee. My eyes try to skim the pages but instead my attention is drawn to all of the passer-bys and long greasy haired fellas sitting around me.
The sun casts shadows as my mind is lost in thought of why is that young man wearing tall white socks with those black suade shoes? And What are the chances with chance? Are we all so unique or do we only believe ourselves to be? Is this person a best friend or a lover and only an intro away?
What if? What if we reach out? What if we dont?
What wisdom could we share? Or intimate touch?
Closeness. A warm hand.
And the people keep moving As I sit still and question their intentions. Their expressions.
And I miss october third. I miss feelings from the railroad tracks.
And the comforts of a life that seemed so certain, the fingertips of a hand that wrote so sweet.