Philosophers think
We may dream our reality.

With earphones attached liked IVs
I dream my own melodic universe.
Until someone laughs behind me
And strikes up conversation with a friend.
And in that moment they become my anchor
Are they spinning through my dream
Or am I spinning through theirs?

Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,
Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,
And sometimes it all mixes together
Like liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.

When no one speaks to me for hours
I begin to wonder
Is everyone dreaming a reality that includes
The whole café but me?

The street outside the window
With passing strangers, dogs and cars
Is a whole new Milky Way
Waiting to be discovered.
But I am no space explorer
Aliens are beyond my reach.
Whispers of the people around
Reach my ears distinctly
Like waves lapping on the shore.

Words on paper go no way
Towards proving that I was ever here
My identity is slowly condensed
Not into the people who know me
But into nothing more significant than a spiral-ringed, Walmart notebook.

Strangers flutter around
Like pages in the wind.
My actions spread across my world
Like ink across lines.
I check a pulse
And it flutters weakly
Like a small camera shutter
Snapping open and closed beneath the skin of my wrist.
But I only show up as white mist
Glitches upon the film.

Coffee shop memoirs
Are the legacies
I shall write out
Fold up
And snail mail
Out to other people’s dreams
Desperately reminding them
That I am still out there

A small planet, a pompous rose and one little prince.