I am sitting at my usual corner in my usual and increasingly familiar coffee shop. I hear the low warm hum of milk being foamed to a frothy perfection and the buzz of espresso being ground and pressed into a portafilter for the hot water to rush through it, taking the earthy flavors for a ride down into a shot glass and mixed with various syrups for the customer at the counter. The smell is overwhelmingly enticing. Resting on the balancing act that is my small wooden table are two things I rarely come here without; A worn leather book with holy words on every page and a journal with my thoughts on those most precious words.
As the flood waters of my mind pour out into trickling thoughts and meandering memories I can smell old cigar smoke and wine, and hear the sound of dusty books being rustled to life again by the cold air and cracked open by old men in their church coats, with their nimble fingers tracing the binding of the ancient volumes.
To watch the thoughts long forgotten come out to play on an older yet familiar face, to see them roll over every wrinkle and fold and dance round the curved edge of the aged mouth.. This is what I love.
