Out of Coffee

I'm sitting in an uncomfortably warm City Cafe. I have to keep wiping my hands on the jeans I've been wearing for the past 3 days to keep my hands from slipping off the keys of my laptop. 

I've missed the cafe. 

I'm reviewing poetry and scribbling my critiques on my classmates' work for a paper I'll be rushing to finish later this evening. This hazelnut coffee and ambient jazz makes the task easier.

In between inky underlines and sips of java my thoughts float back to the yashica eBay is taunting me with. I need to win this one. Winning that over-sized coat rack of a bike can't possibly count for my one win for the year. 

I still have to write that poem defining what makes a man. How many men do I really know? 

There has been a lot of past-life connecting during these 2 weeks. It's awkward, but unmistakable. I feel like I'm very sensitive to that sort of thing, and that it happens to me quite frequently. I don't usually tell people, because they would probably think that I'm just trying to force some sort of superficial intimacy by claiming to be a past lover...or something like that. For now I'll keep my findings nestled in my poetry. 

If you're reading my thoughts and think you know what feeling I'm talking about, don't be shy about it. Then again, I think I'm the only one who reads this thing...which isn't bad, because then I don't feel quite as bashful about writing so much. I feel like the blogs on here all have declared purposes. Frontispiece (my other lonely blog) is for my poetry and creative things. Penumbra is where all the other crap goes. It's not the recycling, but it's not quite the trash either. If you want to make my day, follow me...or buy me another cup of coffee.

Back to poetry and sweaty pens.