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A law of time
Who does decide
on these rules by which we must abide
On the subject of time
Who did choose
that our youth we must loose
and our skin grow old with time
Who was the one to set in place
these years in which aging has made us wish to erase
a wish to make us young once more
Who puts these laws in order
with which the line with young and old share a border
and crossing it be inevitable
Though some of these laws may be unspoken
We must all agree that rules are meant to be broken
This is me.
What do I see with these eyes? Can you see what I see through them? Behind these eyes is me. Me and my world. My world of whatever I wish to think of. Reality left behind, the sight of what's real covered by my wish for an endless dream. The world is what I want it to be. What I make it to be. The reality in front of me is immovable, still there but occasionally shrouded by my endless imagination and day dreams of other such things. A reality that can be covered momentarily, but not hidden entirely. Though still seeing this reality are my eyes and behind my eyes still lies myself. Me. Me, my eyes and the forever present reality. Since I cannot change reality, let me change the eyes which see reality.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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