Edited: Christmas
Father tell me
Down, ground floor of the bookshop café
The cinematic view of red stars and shoppers on the escalators
The soft music and the elderly sipping coffee
white lips, white hair
in the half empty space of a corner
Adorned only by its own staircase
Every inch on wood is a frame holding in place the air around. Voices on sugar
Don’t let me fall again
And Arvo Pärt in the spoon
turning in the glass
Will I find you, your face, on the bottom of the coffee cup?
I’m here with Marquez, with Huxley and Parker. Far, but not too far, in Chinatown my love makes paper lanterns and online pages
Father tell me, does she care?
I would swap the sugar for cinnamon, but there isn’t any. Still, I remember…
The memory police nudging my hands
Calling my eyes
I need to leave everything around behind
