Four O’Clock On A Sunday

It’s four o’clock on a Sunday (it sounds like a song) and the music plays,
The soft chatters coming from all round occasionally allow the tunes to filter through,
Yet the melody is foreign and the voice strained but mostly unknown and uncared for
While the guitar rifts gently flow as frets and glances are exchanged across tables; 

A boy and a girl sits close by at six o’clock staring into each other’s eyes,
sipping love potions through straws and getting lost in other worlds,
Many more around stare at chemical symbols under mood lighting,
Hoping to find the right formula to answer life’s biggest questions;

You sit elsewhere drinking coffee while I sit here wondering where this is all going; 

The sun shines outside and a set of notes is dropped,
Every table a different feeling, a different conversation, a different group,
Sitting together in the same space taking in the same tunes and smells,
Yet everyone is living a separate life experiencing a separate feeling and taste;

What do you want to do with your life, 
At four o’clock on a Sunday? 

(Starbucks) 
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Her

When I smell her hair, 
I experience the scent of flowers blossoming in their full glory in spring time;

When I look upon her smile,
I sense the work of all the angels in the mighty Heavens above;

When I hear her voice, 
I appreciate no melody sweeter alongside no bells more pleasant in chime;

When I taste her lips,
I savour every bit of them and indulge in a taste of paradise.