holding it down
Spillage
There are spaces and then there are places. A place can be such a thing, that makes the increment of time you travel to get to it irrelevant.
A place holds energy not just for itself but for its transitory visitors to exchange something everlasting: memory. Beyond the smiling squad behind the counter, I’ll remember my cappuccino as a tool for the gent I blushed with, the girl I hugged after being coincidentally reunited, and the freckled man who joined a conversation of three right before I spilled a bit of coffee on the low table as the sun showed face, gave shadows, played as we all had done, by choosing to live for a span of time, in someone’s place.
Like the bottles on the wall, this memory will be swell, always.