Nothing Here for Me
“My soul is starving,”
she said softly and sadly,
staring out the café window
at the setting sun.
“There’s nothing here for me anymore.”
And that’s all she said -
just sipped her exotic tea
from the thick ceramic mug.
It was bigger than her
and heavier,
requiring two hands.
Her bony fingers wrapped around it
as if giving life to the steam
that curled from the cup.
The French music climbed up
then down
and danced sideways
across the red brick walls.
It was warm –
a comforting contrast to the cold rain sliding down
the smooth glass of the window,
fogging it up,
closing us in.
Posted by Amanda at November 05, 2004 12:48 AM
