A morning in town

I wander the empty streets as the sun rises, my ears

oh so grateful

for the very few engines humming in the distance.

Most trees have shed the green now, soon

flaunting their bright colours of demise to the world.

The stinging of shivers has

my skin clinging to the weight of a knitted sweater,

one that I can't let go of, despite the itches

(we all had one of those…).

Rows of homes are waking up from their slumber

as the coppered horizon sets the skies

ablaze,

the air swift to lose its sharpness

in response.

My feet take me to the steps

of the neighbourhood cafe and

two dings later my lips are caught

skinny-dipping into the silken blanket of a caffè latte.

The steaming creaminess of oat slick against my throat…

The caramelized notes sticking to my tongues…

The melting of bitter cocoa sweet on my breath…

Oh dear heavens.

My mouth begs for a second swallow. And another.

I drift inside the parkland and towards a wooden bench,

audaciously claiming it

as my own

confessional.

This is where I indite my ghostly truths and

dissect each one into clutters of vowels

and consonants.

The ink and graphite get lost

in the void

of weathered-alabaster sheets

as my hand screams

and screams and

screams

endless

tangle of thoughts

between these faux-leather folds in which I can do

whatever

I please–

scrawls or meticulous cursive;

top to bottom, bottom to top or sideways;

worries or desires;

impeccable grammar or mistakes by the handful…

because chaos has no rules,

and that is also comforting.