The lush visuals and vivid sensations created by “House of Heart” ‘s  Sad Café  series have captivated me. One night, while listening to live music, I began drawing from my mind’s eye album. Holly picked prose & poems to go with the drawings.

I’m awakened by far off laughter drifting through the window of my flat above the Café. From there I can see the cobblestone streets filling with nighttime partiers dodging snow drifts piling along the curbside. My watch reads ten o’clock. Sinking slowly into a warm bath I rinse the scent of smoke from my hair with lavender soap. My skin smells of yesterday’s perfume mingled with the haunting presence of strong cologne and the sweet scent of sweat and rope. At the mirror I brush my hair and pull it back with a silver plated comb, slip into smoky seamed stockings and a clingy black frock. Making my way past the crowded bar I slide into my usual booth at the dark fringe of a deserted corner. I order a glass of red wine and wait.

The room is stifling with

deflowered souls.

The sad café tends its ghosts

but we are more than grateful to forget.

There are no secrets among these

desolate lovers disfigured by life.

We inhale circlets of smoke

that linger in the air and taste lips

dripping desire.

The night arches its back

to drunken angels so we dance

below stars that meet us halfway.

I’ve been here forever

hidden in fantasies,

dimly lit rooms where

moonbeams caper blithely

on the river Seine.

All of my memories are strangers

that come and go.

I want them to know

the smokey purple of lunar tides,

the bittersweet of Rose red.

They linger beneath lamp lit streets,

shadows on tiger paws.

I remember you

beside that serpentine

river of eels and smoke and lovers.

Your secrets held captive

inside a closed heart,

coaxing stars pressed

up against the sky.

Do you think of me?

I am still here where walls

ring with silvery mirth.

I am your souvenir,

a shadow of a woman

in rhinestone heels

A street light blinks off and on. At the window a moth relentlessly scours its edges in search of a way out.

Parting a juicy plum I lick the nectar from my fingers. Like sweet memories the pulp is delicious on my tongue. Beating its wing’s against the glass the moth falls exhausted to the sill, like my eyes.

I remember you. The sun slipping through your teeth. The ghosts of lovers, like birds, peering from behind your eyes, flaying their wings unable to escape.

Drawings © Resa McConaghy

Poetry & Prose © Holly Rene Hunter