You've heard it all. I'm the 150th table in this café.
Scratched upon me are whispers never intended to be seen.
Confidential contracts and love letters mix with spilled coffee.
Urge me to recall, and I'll disclose even names burned into memory.
Close to food but distant from warmth, I hear all secrets.
Behind doors, I hold leftovers and confessions, one spilling into the other.
Open briefly, I witness temper and tranquility alike,
Promises stored like produce, wilting in time.
I flicker truth beneath sheets where souls lay bare.
Illumination reveals dreams and doubts they dare not voice out.
Whisper to the switch, and I'll enlighten you about dark mornings,
Silent betrayals that radiate warmth ghosted by fingertips.