I was sitting in a coffee shop and I needed to write something. This is what came out of those two hours.

The Coffee Shop Books of My Twenties

It’s loud in here, but there are books stacked
On the walls: falling together, frozen in time, like
Drunkards gamboling down the street, arm-crossed
Lovers with well-read spines who have seen
A lot of bedsheets.

The walls are green, but they’re also orange and
Grey with a texture from the 90s that reminds me
Of home: twelve-foot Christmas trees and balcony dreams
Where I first learned how to read books like these
With dog-ear creases and tea stains.

I had books like these and I even had a wall that was green,
And I had a home on a cul-de-sac, afternoon
Games. I had time and notebooks full of pages filled with
Words that meant something: Ghost Tigers and
Cardinal Songs and dreams.

Around midnight, it will get quiet in here, the lights will
Go black and the people will flee. They’ll have had their fill
Of tea and they’ll stride past drunkards on the street
Who have been anywhere else: and inside,
The books will come to life and act out scenes
From a childhood I’ll never fully leave.

Back home, in an apartment where I don’t want to sleep, I’ll read
Books I couldn’t at that age and I’ll think of things
I didn’t know when I was eight. Much later, in my thirties,
I’ll find myself in coffee shops with books stacked on
Walls: tomes I’ll never read, or see as they act out the scenes
From a childhood I can no longer be, the histories of fingertips
I’ll never really need.

Maybe I’ll write a poem about the spines of books I haven’t known
And I’ll compare them to the people I’ve seen stumbling
In the streets, those I’ve avoided while searching for some peace.
Maybe in my thirties, they’ll remind me of home:
The creases and the pieces of the stories that were once
The bedroom books of my teens.

Stay gold,
Sabrina