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I will bury my past with youWhen the dark will fall down
I'll make a bonfire to get rid
Of all the memories of you
Of all the thoughts of you
Of all the remembrances of you
I will stare at the smoke
Fading, up, up, up to the sky
Till your name become ashes
I will hold my tears from flowing down
I will stop my blood from boiling inside
I will take back my sighs and close my eyes
I will remain this way on the brownish ground
I will embrace the last hours of Autumn
I will let Winter change my life into frost
I will escape from the brightness of Spring
I will bury my past with you tomorow
I will die to get an eternal sleep.
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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