Table number 13.

Everything is beige, except the sunlight on my blue denim skirt. A couple, I assume, in fleeces and jeans and round glasses, kiss outside. 

I wonder as I scribble in my tatty old notebook, when did the shape of my 'w's change? 

This actually is my photo.

And why must I take a photo? The latte art heart isn't even that good. 

A slight, silver-haired 'man' brings an assortment of crockery and cutlery back to the bar and says he should be their waiter. The sweet (beige) barista politely laughs. 

I see Chappell Roan totes and daffodil pins on jacket collars, short blonde bobs and glinting gold hoops. Expensive bottles of juice cast colourful shadows across the bland wood and white sinks. 

If I didn't have these tights on, I'd get a tan. 

Instagram poetry has recently/finally come under fire. Words in empty space don't cut it now. And nothing is free to consume any more. Not when everything can be copied and stolen away. 

Clumsy handwriting is romantic. 

I just found an emergency panty liner stashed in the back pages of this notebook. Thank you, Past Me.

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