We met in here once
I touched your hand and sobbed
We don’t talk these days
Ciara
I sat near the entrance of the cafe with a stack of seven books at my elbow all about the Congo. A girl beside me asked if I was writing a research paper and if i was a student at the university around the block. The answer was no to both parts of her question and i went on to share with her how i am preparing to leave for the Congo. Her response was typical, an autonomic response to fear “But why, isn’t it super dangerous there?” I smiled and replied, “Yeah, it’s risky, maybe i’m crazy.” I write my real reason here: Because of this sedentary insanity. Because of the ontological crippling. Because of the cafes. Because of the cushions. Because of men playing video games. Because of men willing to put themselves in harms way for their country and not for their humanity, humanity, the world and love for the world. Because if not I, then who? Because of the easy answers, the predictability, the atrophy, the absurdity (at any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face) the infantile, breast milk, the safety, the comfort (let me quote Huxley) “But I don’t want comfort. I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” Yes. I don’t want comfort. I want the hard parts. The hardest part.
He was sitting, tapping his fingernails lightly on the table. Nervously he looks around him, she should be here by now. He takes a drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out angrily. Why should he stand for this? It was not his duty!
He stood up and stormed out of the door, in such anger that he didn’t see the bus coming.
She watched from a table across the room, her face emotionless. It was done.
Schweigend saß er da, an seinem Stammtisch des kleinen Cafés und Trank seinen Cappuccino. Die Leute liefen an ihm vorbei, aufgeregt, hetzend, vollkommen in ihrem Alltag versunken.
Er mochte es, sie zu beobachten, einzelnen Wortfetzen zu lauschen und darüber nachzudenken, was für ein Leben sie wohl führen mögen.
Er würde es nie erfahren.
Aber er möchte es, schweigend an seinem Stammtisch des kleinen Cafés zu sitzen und seinen Cappuccino zu trinken.
BlueRay
i sat alone at the corner table, a delicate teacup clutched between my fingers and steam rising to fill my nostrils.
Pepper
After ranting about today’s problems, I often go and sit in a cafe. I have my own seat, just by the window, its morning always and birds are singing. that Fresh bread smell is wafting through the air and I just sit and let my problems dissipate. I’ve been lying of course. That place doesn’t exist. At least, not here.
oh the girl I could.shoulda.woulda.did ask to the _____
“music is your only friend”
i could sign up to this site, but then I’d be missing out,
maybe
& I defy anybody not to listen to some Jeff Buckley every now & then.
DivWithNoTrousers
As I sit in the french cafe, sipping red wine and eating chesse and biscuits and admiring the wonderful stunning views, of sunny skies, and beautiful nature, I sit and talk gently to the handsome man sat beside me! I smell the gorgeous flowers.
Natalie
the avenue’s backbone bends, spilling out into the courtyard. she walks all bird of prey, the sunlight glancing off starched white sleeves and khakis.
sitting in a cafe drinking coffee and listening to the buzz of conversation. reading the daily newspaper while it is still delivered on newsprint – what a different time when it isn’t available on paper anymore.
Bob Parina
The rich, velvety aroma of coffee in china mugs, the gentle melodies rising from the man plucking his acoustic guitar in the corner, the occasional car honks blasting through the cozy walls from the bustling street outside: none of it seemed real or even mattered because, at that moment, resting casually on top of the small, wooden table, your hand was one inch away from mine.
The space between our fingertips came alive with electricity and possibilities. My heart pounding, my mind cursed at me over and over, branding me with words like “coward” and “baby”. I took a deep breath, pleaded my hand to come back to life, breach the small distance between our two souls, create a Something out of this mass of confusion and muddled feelings.
Then, a barista in a green apron broke our moment of opportunity with a quick “Here is the latte you ordered, sir,” and suddenly, your hand had left the table, travelled far away again, occupied with the handle of the steaming beverage that had been delivered so swiftly and deliberately. The silent, unmoving statue of my hand ached with regrets.
Zoe
a nice little hangout that is famous for their coffee and pastries. I go here to read, do homework, relax, socialize, observe, and enjoy coffee. My place to be an individual and social at the same time all the while with great coffee.
No me gusta el sabor del café pero sí disfruto mucho de su aroma. Es curioso que sea uno de mis olores preferidos a pesar de que no disfruto en absoluto de su sabor. Tengo los ojos café.
My father always told me about the joys of European cafe life.
How you could order one cup of coffee, read your paper and sit all day
watching the people.
Robin
Grey light shown through the windows of the little cafe on fourth street. It was still early so only a few customers sat sipping their coffee and listening to the tap tap of typewriter keys.
I once went to one in france it was beautiful and I had the time of my life while was there I wish I could go back but I forgot to take pictures and for the lif eof me can’t remember the name. IT break my hear to think about
Tehjae
George loved having lunch at the cafe, it was his one true pleasure on a Wednesday.
This day however, was going to be far different from all the others that he had spent there – this day he was going to meet Sally.
the spinning wheel’s turning round
dark like nighttime; in coffee we drown
cigarettes in our poisonous trench
take a second to remember what’s left
click clack computer shuts off
to what to us too much is enough
a cafe is west hollywood
tonight we all sigh
in a new york minute.
Matty M.
Is a place where you can meet the love of your life. All the good love stories have it
Megan Webber
France. Spring. the weather is beautiful. i am sitting and sipping on a cappuccino and having a croissant. everything is just breathing beauty and poetry and LIFE.
The rain has just finished, so the drops of water are still seen everywhere. it is so fresh and clean
Natalie
The man sat at the counter with his expresso and waited patiently. Rather, he waited in what he believed to be a patient manner. His tan trench coat brushed the floor and he lifted it a tad to avoid the puddle of cold cappuccino on the tile below his vinyl padded bar stool. He adjusted his brown fedora over his eyes, giving him the air of mystery and [end time] raised his newspaper once again. He had a hunch he’d be waiting for quite some time yet.
Hope
She sat at small table at the outdoor cafe’ in Paris. The sites and sounds astounded her as she took it all in.
I walked into the cafe and sat down. There was only a few people inside so it was a perfect place to have a quiet sit down and drink tea while I did my homework. College was harder than I thought. That is when a man came up t me and sat sat down. “You look very beautiful,” he winked. I smiled and blushed, not sure what to think.
Emilie
I sat in the café with mindless calm. It was the one place that I could be myself, the one place I could express myself. As every moment passed, more words hit the page, and I could breath again. Writing, I was free. Free from the stress of every day life, of everyone who didn’t understand. Freedom on the page, the purest kind.
Early morning, starbucks save me, to the cafe` I go.
ToriSharp.
it’s a quiet little place, which isn’t to aki’s taste, but you managed to tempt him with promises of peppermint mocha. “god, topher, you’re so boring,” he says, and rolls his eyes in that affectionate exasperation. but you know he loves you, and sometimes he likes to wind down in a little corner table by the window on a gentle spring day.
It’s framed on the wall in my mind. A cafe and people, coffee and words, sounds breaking and bending and smoke. It’s not clean, not classy, not prestigious in the least but it’s home. It’s got the warmth of a fire that humanities downpour can’t even devour and a sweetness that can’t be soured. The cafe above my living quarter.
sit quiet
listening to the murmur
sip coffee
or tea, strong chai with milk
nibble upon a sweet pastry and watch
enjoy the solitude
and the constant company
Nia Ceridwyn
I sit in the middle of the cafe and watch you from behind a cup of coffee. I don’t really like coffee. Or cafes. All I know is that I kept coming to this spot and I didn’t know why until I finally realized what it was that kept bringing me back. You; the beautiful boy behind the counter with the bright green eyes and the blue nametag.
It wasn’t a great venture, but it was one he made everyday. Coffee was his initial goal, but his motives changed the morning he saw her sweeping spilled beans just in front of the back store door.
There was one a cafe. It was a lovely cafe on the corner of Alber Street. There he would meet her time and time again, never breaking his appointments. Until one day, she disappeared. His heart was broken. The coffee didn’t even taste the same. He missed her tremendously.
Tiffani
I got the text when sitting in the cafe the next day. Coffee aided last night’s debauchery, in case you ever wondered what really happened. I got tipsy with some friends, went back to my room, and only wanted someone to sit with me. I wanted a friend, I wanted someone I knew, but you weren’t there, and you didn’t care why I texted you at one thirty in the morning. And that hurt more than the meaningless fooling around, it hurt more than your self-righteous claims. It meant you didn’t even care about our simple friendship. And to that, I say
Let’s go to the corner café and listen for the call that I know will come, streaming through the air like a blue ribbon and deciding our fate. This is not our own, this experience, this reality. We belong in a higher place.
I would like to be in a cafe right now. I would like to be sipping coffee and reading something that has no use to me other than making me feel good. Instead I’m at work. I’m looking out the window as snow falls for the third or fourth time this April. I’m drinking a fucking Redbull.
A place where I can grab a cup of java, kick back, and read, play chess, and write.
A Haiku.
We met in here once
I touched your hand and sobbed
We don’t talk these days
I sat near the entrance of the cafe with a stack of seven books at my elbow all about the Congo. A girl beside me asked if I was writing a research paper and if i was a student at the university around the block. The answer was no to both parts of her question and i went on to share with her how i am preparing to leave for the Congo. Her response was typical, an autonomic response to fear “But why, isn’t it super dangerous there?” I smiled and replied, “Yeah, it’s risky, maybe i’m crazy.” I write my real reason here: Because of this sedentary insanity. Because of the ontological crippling. Because of the cafes. Because of the cushions. Because of men playing video games. Because of men willing to put themselves in harms way for their country and not for their humanity, humanity, the world and love for the world. Because if not I, then who? Because of the easy answers, the predictability, the atrophy, the absurdity (at any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face) the infantile, breast milk, the safety, the comfort (let me quote Huxley) “But I don’t want comfort. I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” Yes. I don’t want comfort. I want the hard parts. The hardest part.
He was sitting, tapping his fingernails lightly on the table. Nervously he looks around him, she should be here by now. He takes a drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out angrily. Why should he stand for this? It was not his duty!
He stood up and stormed out of the door, in such anger that he didn’t see the bus coming.
She watched from a table across the room, her face emotionless. It was done.
Schweigend saß er da, an seinem Stammtisch des kleinen Cafés und Trank seinen Cappuccino. Die Leute liefen an ihm vorbei, aufgeregt, hetzend, vollkommen in ihrem Alltag versunken.
Er mochte es, sie zu beobachten, einzelnen Wortfetzen zu lauschen und darüber nachzudenken, was für ein Leben sie wohl führen mögen.
Er würde es nie erfahren.
Aber er möchte es, schweigend an seinem Stammtisch des kleinen Cafés zu sitzen und seinen Cappuccino zu trinken.
i sat alone at the corner table, a delicate teacup clutched between my fingers and steam rising to fill my nostrils.
After ranting about today’s problems, I often go and sit in a cafe. I have my own seat, just by the window, its morning always and birds are singing. that Fresh bread smell is wafting through the air and I just sit and let my problems dissipate. I’ve been lying of course. That place doesn’t exist. At least, not here.
oh the girl I could.shoulda.woulda.did ask to the _____
“music is your only friend”
i could sign up to this site, but then I’d be missing out,
maybe
& I defy anybody not to listen to some Jeff Buckley every now & then.
As I sit in the french cafe, sipping red wine and eating chesse and biscuits and admiring the wonderful stunning views, of sunny skies, and beautiful nature, I sit and talk gently to the handsome man sat beside me! I smell the gorgeous flowers.
the avenue’s backbone bends, spilling out into the courtyard. she walks all bird of prey, the sunlight glancing off starched white sleeves and khakis.
sitting in a cafe drinking coffee and listening to the buzz of conversation. reading the daily newspaper while it is still delivered on newsprint – what a different time when it isn’t available on paper anymore.
The rich, velvety aroma of coffee in china mugs, the gentle melodies rising from the man plucking his acoustic guitar in the corner, the occasional car honks blasting through the cozy walls from the bustling street outside: none of it seemed real or even mattered because, at that moment, resting casually on top of the small, wooden table, your hand was one inch away from mine.
The space between our fingertips came alive with electricity and possibilities. My heart pounding, my mind cursed at me over and over, branding me with words like “coward” and “baby”. I took a deep breath, pleaded my hand to come back to life, breach the small distance between our two souls, create a Something out of this mass of confusion and muddled feelings.
Then, a barista in a green apron broke our moment of opportunity with a quick “Here is the latte you ordered, sir,” and suddenly, your hand had left the table, travelled far away again, occupied with the handle of the steaming beverage that had been delivered so swiftly and deliberately. The silent, unmoving statue of my hand ached with regrets.
a nice little hangout that is famous for their coffee and pastries. I go here to read, do homework, relax, socialize, observe, and enjoy coffee. My place to be an individual and social at the same time all the while with great coffee.
mkmkm
No me gusta el sabor del café pero sí disfruto mucho de su aroma. Es curioso que sea uno de mis olores preferidos a pesar de que no disfruto en absoluto de su sabor. Tengo los ojos café.
Starbucks! What a great store. Not only does their coffee taste awesome, but it also feels pretty pro to carry one around.
Also, because YOCJ auditions are tomorrow, I just got reminded of Cafe Suite.
My father always told me about the joys of European cafe life.
How you could order one cup of coffee, read your paper and sit all day
watching the people.
Grey light shown through the windows of the little cafe on fourth street. It was still early so only a few customers sat sipping their coffee and listening to the tap tap of typewriter keys.
I once went to one in france it was beautiful and I had the time of my life while was there I wish I could go back but I forgot to take pictures and for the lif eof me can’t remember the name. IT break my hear to think about
George loved having lunch at the cafe, it was his one true pleasure on a Wednesday.
This day however, was going to be far different from all the others that he had spent there – this day he was going to meet Sally.
the spinning wheel’s turning round
dark like nighttime; in coffee we drown
cigarettes in our poisonous trench
take a second to remember what’s left
click clack computer shuts off
to what to us too much is enough
a cafe is west hollywood
tonight we all sigh
in a new york minute.
Is a place where you can meet the love of your life. All the good love stories have it
France. Spring. the weather is beautiful. i am sitting and sipping on a cappuccino and having a croissant. everything is just breathing beauty and poetry and LIFE.
The rain has just finished, so the drops of water are still seen everywhere. it is so fresh and clean
The man sat at the counter with his expresso and waited patiently. Rather, he waited in what he believed to be a patient manner. His tan trench coat brushed the floor and he lifted it a tad to avoid the puddle of cold cappuccino on the tile below his vinyl padded bar stool. He adjusted his brown fedora over his eyes, giving him the air of mystery and [end time] raised his newspaper once again. He had a hunch he’d be waiting for quite some time yet.
She sat at small table at the outdoor cafe’ in Paris. The sites and sounds astounded her as she took it all in.
I walked into the cafe and sat down. There was only a few people inside so it was a perfect place to have a quiet sit down and drink tea while I did my homework. College was harder than I thought. That is when a man came up t me and sat sat down. “You look very beautiful,” he winked. I smiled and blushed, not sure what to think.
I sat in the café with mindless calm. It was the one place that I could be myself, the one place I could express myself. As every moment passed, more words hit the page, and I could breath again. Writing, I was free. Free from the stress of every day life, of everyone who didn’t understand. Freedom on the page, the purest kind.
Early morning, starbucks save me, to the cafe` I go.
it’s a quiet little place, which isn’t to aki’s taste, but you managed to tempt him with promises of peppermint mocha. “god, topher, you’re so boring,” he says, and rolls his eyes in that affectionate exasperation. but you know he loves you, and sometimes he likes to wind down in a little corner table by the window on a gentle spring day.
It’s framed on the wall in my mind. A cafe and people, coffee and words, sounds breaking and bending and smoke. It’s not clean, not classy, not prestigious in the least but it’s home. It’s got the warmth of a fire that humanities downpour can’t even devour and a sweetness that can’t be soured. The cafe above my living quarter.
The café is great,
The café is grand,
My thinking place.
My love,
My life.
Be free little me,
Live with hope Little me,
My café
My peaceful place.
sit quiet
listening to the murmur
sip coffee
or tea, strong chai with milk
nibble upon a sweet pastry and watch
enjoy the solitude
and the constant company
I sit in the middle of the cafe and watch you from behind a cup of coffee. I don’t really like coffee. Or cafes. All I know is that I kept coming to this spot and I didn’t know why until I finally realized what it was that kept bringing me back. You; the beautiful boy behind the counter with the bright green eyes and the blue nametag.
It wasn’t a great venture, but it was one he made everyday. Coffee was his initial goal, but his motives changed the morning he saw her sweeping spilled beans just in front of the back store door.
There was one a cafe. It was a lovely cafe on the corner of Alber Street. There he would meet her time and time again, never breaking his appointments. Until one day, she disappeared. His heart was broken. The coffee didn’t even taste the same. He missed her tremendously.
I got the text when sitting in the cafe the next day. Coffee aided last night’s debauchery, in case you ever wondered what really happened. I got tipsy with some friends, went back to my room, and only wanted someone to sit with me. I wanted a friend, I wanted someone I knew, but you weren’t there, and you didn’t care why I texted you at one thirty in the morning. And that hurt more than the meaningless fooling around, it hurt more than your self-righteous claims. It meant you didn’t even care about our simple friendship. And to that, I say
fuck you.
Let’s go to the corner café and listen for the call that I know will come, streaming through the air like a blue ribbon and deciding our fate. This is not our own, this experience, this reality. We belong in a higher place.
I’m actually in a cafe as I write using Cafe as the word in oneword.
Sitting by a stranger
Smelling the coffee in the air
Small notepad balanced in my knee
Words coming from nowhere
I would like to be in a cafe right now. I would like to be sipping coffee and reading something that has no use to me other than making me feel good. Instead I’m at work. I’m looking out the window as snow falls for the third or fourth time this April. I’m drinking a fucking Redbull.