I wait for tiny monuments to sustenance like I had once before, twice before, many times before.
The café culture a gripping rabble of clashing conversations, banging brew baskets, and teaspoon swirls. Arrives the plate by a young blonde - male customer looks on;
is he the same age as my plate bringer?
- young blondes alike,
- two beauties together,
- in a room unweathered;
or was that he checking me,
out with my hair perfectly combed in place,
- little effort;
and confidence in my stroll as I strolled my stroll to a waiting table? I prefer my plate bringer.
I prefer what's on my plate!
Thankfully my toasted sandwich is far better than the imagined.
I wandered the black of last night, around the block of roads and houses lit only by lamp posts and occasional flashes of my cellphone when darkness threatened tripping and stumbling from my feet. Thoughts of family negativity came and went, but didn't last long. The thoughts felt like thoughts without massive amounts of emotion attached to them. I've accepted and moved on from the hurt, though the hurt still manifests in thoughts, but the thoughts never leave me feeling hurt, and that's the important part.