in 1959, there was this diner. it was open and empty. it was so late, old men with dirt under their fingernails were coming in and ordering breakfast.
maybe this isn’t 1959, but it feels like 1959. it feels authentic. these old men know each other, and know the waitress. i know that if i began talking to these people, they would not like me, and i would not like them. but at this hour, none of us care. we just want eggs and bacon and coffee, so we are polite, and we squeeze our cheeks into the shapes of smiles.
i am waiting for you. killing time in places time forgot about, places with no wi-fi internet or cnn or digital anything. cash only. in pictures, everything is black and white, but right now, everything is beige and chrome and vinyl. cracked vinyl. old dirty greasy vinyl that sometimes is the exact feeling you need under the skin on the inside of your arm. which makes me think of the skin on the inside of your arm. which makes me sad that i care about the skin in the inside of your arm. sad that i know what it looks like. sad that i will never know what it tastes like. sad that i want to know what it tastes like.
how does this happen?
how do i end up here, waiting for you, knowing you would never like this place?
it’s time to go. i can’t bear to see the sun rise. i want to be asleep before the edge of the sky gets pale.
i will never step foot in here again, even though i’d very much like to.
i am fluent in this diner’s silent, wordless language. it has touched the skin on the inside of my arm; it knows me better than you.
the bell jingles on my way out.
** from: bending light into verse|every picture tells a story - by Jen Tomaloff