every city has one, a cafe with a boy who sits near the window. and he’s always got a book, a notepad, a pen. house coffee is all he drinks and sometimes one of those yellow sweetener packets makes it into his cup but he’s grown accustomed to the bitterness, it reminds him of his flaws.

every city has one, a cafe with a girl who walks through the door like clockwork on mondays. and she always smells like strawberries. her eyes look like Purple Haze, sound like The Long and Winding Road. she sips her lattes like she used to pluck petals from daisies in the 7th grade- her friends cycled through boyfriends like AM radio stations, she sometimes enjoyed the white noise.

every city has a boy who’s been stuck on the same page for 5 months, who’s yet to let a single word slip from his fingers, who’s written sonnets in his head about how her name might be Delilah and how that sounds an awful lot like lonely but probably tastes like cinnamon.

every city has a girl who walks into a cafe, orders a latte and leaves, only to throw it away down the street because she’s been hoping that boy, that every city has, might be standing in line, to make time stand still

Untitled

To That Girl

How To Not Tell A Girl You Like Her

As A Hopeless Romantic, This Is Why "Hey There Delilah" Is My Favorite Song

If I Could Write A Letter To Your Body

Untitled Prose Piece From 6/24/2013

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Brian Dominguez 5

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