Beneath Ink Stained Fingertips…

A soya macchiato with steam rising into the still air as the caramel topping sinks down through the foam. Shoes empty and toppled over beneath the chair while the soles of my feet are tucked beneath my thighs, legs crossed. White headphones cover my ears and fill my mind with the sweetest of tunes, ‘he told me son, you know I lost my true love for the same exact reason that you crossed the sea’ — the morning’s still young and only a few people occupy the room, we’re all going it alone with books, laptops and phones as companions, caffeine at our sides. I sit, curled in on myself in the tiny chair, all 5’10 of me, with my chin in my scarf and my coffee within arm’s length I enter the bubble I’ve missed for so long, pen poised between my fingers as the ink flows from the tip and onto the pages. What had up until this point been a fickle of my imagination becomes a little more real as the dimensions of new people and their tragic little lives are created onto paper. My Moleskine becomes ladened with the pieces of a new world that I’ve yet to string together coherently and the very essence of my soul sighs with a neglected relief as all the fragments of thoughts and ideas release their grip on my mind and gets transferred to the crisp awaiting pages. For a blissful hour I exist only within, until I unfurl my now stiff limbs and muscles, roll my aching neck, down the remaining cold coffee and put the notes away — until next time — and enter reality once more. As I leave a guy takes my seat, I hope he will find the same peace in the pages of the book he is holding as I did with my own during the time it took my fingertips to get stained with the ink I so often can’t live without…

– Martie xx

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