Café Milano

the small hand touches 9 the big hand in its early start the jazz tunes and clickering business of a nostalgic coffee shop eyes glued to a towering clock my heart sinks to the dusty memory that can only be found in the nook and cranny of my rememberance I sit with a solemn stare intimate smiles and dilated eyes of passion come close to me haunted by their visit my heart races without the caffeine inflation that permeates this time encapsulating place ceiling fans cooling my collegiate fever intellectual runnings are only whispers now the comfy chair welcomes me but only the new me enters delighted and sober, I bite the bread that remains stale free. I swallow and alleviate the drowning sadness of my long expired grief.