TheCourtRose

the nefarious Red Line zipped along its underground way with so many detached, disengaged or mummified in silence, hyper aware even as they ignored each other- then low and behold Class herself steps on to the train- cinched black coat a perfect mirror to black gloves, hat, scarf, briefcase and heeled Victorian boots with a few streaks of blue in her hair and a proper nose ring she would be screaming SteamPunk instead of Mary Poppins governess it was though, and she placed a delicate hand into her delicatessen bag full of goodies, sitting neatly on the seat beside her she opened a new box of chocolate truffles and wiggled her clad fingers in anticipation of which ball of delight to eat first on the Red Line, mind you with crowds of going-oners and mad push-pushers, she sat in her Victorian boots and enjoyed a chocolate indulgence covered in hazelnut pieces and why not? in such a world no one could begrudge the lady her treat, especially when every one...

Your laryngeal prominence moves luxuriously through the lines of your throat. It makes me hungry. I want to bite through an apple, and think of you while I do so.

My insides are made out of runny eggs. Churning, aborted ambitions that never took flight, and only succeed in weighing me down with a slab of bacon and burnt toast. Add a cup of coffee and I only get louder about how messy I am on the inside, not more focused or more satisfied. I need to stop, need to breathe, but the toaster is bellowing smoke and I can't make the noise stop. I am on a fast from peace. I can't remember the last time I indulged in silence. There is nothing that can break me open and pour me out. I guess I'm not hungry enough to stop my internal, golden undulation. This is your brain and this is a frying pan, and somewhere in between is a life on drugs. But I say, at least you've affirmed your own existence, even if it's coked-out, choked-up, pill-popping or heroin addicted. Instead of empty. Like an apartment with the stove left on, the toaster burning and the breakfast abandoned on the table. I'd take a frying pan to the head any day over ...

I come in for chai and your shy smile. In my daydreams I slip you a poem inside my empty mug. I ask you out to a bookstore, instead of out for coffee, because even I'm not that cruel. You say yes because I’m the regular who orders chai with soy and always says thank you. We talk about Keats and comic books, both pretending we know a lot about each. When I take you home, because the quickest way to my bed is through my mind, I finally get to brush those lazy strands away from your eyes. When we wake up, your smile is for me and everything we did last night. But things go stale, like coffee left standing. You finally discover I am impossible to please. So the love goes bad and I put angry notes inside your refrigerator so you're forced to read them before you pour your morning orange juice, telling you that I never loved your smile. Because sometimes I am that cruel. So when I come in for chai, it's better for both of us if I keep my dreams to the page, and leave all my mugs ...

Cream was making the coffee spin clockwise. Always clockwise. The dark, molasses black was churning into a comfortable brown. Exactly three sugar packets made it drinkable. The mug clinked softly against the well-worn table, next to the spoon lying on the napkin horizontally adjacent to the edge of the well-worn table, with the silver perfect slash of spoon vertically across the white. The used sugar packets were carefully placed into the empty cream container, which sat discreetly in a delicate pile at the edge of the table. Well groomed fingers drummed softly on a closed beige notebook, pen untouched. The coffee spun clockwise. She saw his hands first. Out of the corner of her eye, a streak of scarred skin and calloused tips clasping a shot of espresso. Then another. Knocked back with a gleam in grey eyes and copper blonde hair. Careless hair surrounding an unreadable face etched in stone. The hands were idly tapping knees, bouncing with nerv...

I missed almost everything you just said, because I was watching your lips and wondering how they’d feel against mine.

When you put your lips against my skin, your tongue tasting my firm, white flesh after that first playful nip, perhaps you wonder if I am too young for you. No man could ever think me too old when I wear my full red dress; though many a princess has called me poison enough. Don't stop, please. Keep your mouth against me, slick and easy. Go deeper until you reach my core. Too young, no indeed. I am ripe and ready, speeding away from my mother's anxious limbs, and falling willingly at your feet. You picked me up out of the dust. How could one so sweet for you truly be the seed of temptation in the world? I know you, though. When I am stripped away and left bare, when there is no more to discover, you will discard me, broken and browning. It is enough to know that you hungered for me once, and either way you slice it, you're the one that picked me.

When I awake panic stricken in the night it's because the Silhouette hovers in my door frame still A shadowed face, but familiar hands The memory my heart keeps my mind from comprehending, but a secret my mouth could never tell