A character in my short story.

Brown coloured chocolate sauce
slides down the mountain of vanilla ice cream.
Next to it, in silence, sits the piece of cake.
It watched you as you leaned towards me
and amidst the clamour of the coffee place,
whispered those magical three words into my ears.

It was a fairytale, or so I thought.
But today, I feel like I am one of the
characters in my short stories.
I speak words only that make sense
in the flow of the story.
A story that I myself am not aware of.

Reality on Drugs?

Sipping my cup of tea in the morning
and staring out of the window,
I wonder what makes the day so beautiful.

I see beauty in the spiders web
as much as I see in the snow flakes outside the window.

It is hard to explain the overflowing serenity in this mileau;
the reality, it seems, is high on drugs.