In a sad cafe poems die.
we sit near a window,
watch lovers vanish into scenarios
where we promise to meet them.
Still, we remain here
cutting our ink into impassive tables
holding on to faded lovers.
Secrets speak over absinthe and
cigarettes, tinkling spoons, and lusty moans,
those trespassers of life we cling too.
When the smoke clears we will spend
our hours writing to ourselves.
art by Fabian Perez