Sitting alone,
Time passes, so slowly.
The gentle hum of bad lighting
and good conversation caresses my ears.
The musty smells,
Stale cigerette smoke,
Bitter coffee,
A hot plate of fries
so familure,
comforting.
Back in my corner,
I wait.
Watching.
Listening.
Oppertunities will come.
They always do.
Sometimes they are seen,
Witnessed,
Embraced.
Sometimes I watch them slip away.
Regretting a dialogue missed.
How often does the watched,
feel the same?
Well known faces,
Strangers none-the-less,
Drifting through,
Desiring "life" as much,
or more?
Than I.
I still sit alone,
Trapped in this place.
My own private world,
waiting for my life.
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