Chapter IV

Dear Weaver,

Today I sit here alone with my dry cigarette and coffee. The clouds are looming around the sun as I gaze through the stained glass window and the gray curtains I just bought yesterday. Every weave in the curtain is a duller shade of gray and the folds curve smoothly. I cannot stop painting pictures of the moments from yesterday.  I envisioned and expected too much for reality. Weaver, I have waited for too long now and I have a hope to give up too soon. Lingering hope lies somewhere inside of me, praying I would stop thinking about you every minute. I would not have to worry about why you would not sense my presence anywhere near yours. I would not have to get confused with why you want to seem impossible, yet when I am around you, you seem more readable. Every time I want to drink the coffee blended by you, I would no longer have to savor every moment of the taste we never shared. 

As I sat on the single couch with Pete, Andy, Mario and Rachel beside me, I was hoping you would be there, subconsciously. Inside my mind, the switch was activated with endless questions, images and impeccable thoughts entering and leaving without warning. I had forgotten to stop by and pick up the newspaper today, and my mind was on ordering my fresh, brisk coffee. This time I was uneasy and quivering inside; maybe I seemed mindless of no emotion from the amount of sedatives I had taken in that day. However, my mind was taking in nothing but tangled wires. 

We were having a good time, my family-like friends and I. We went on about our days as they joked and peered at my day, as usual, but that is why I love them so much. We were mostly congratulating Andy for his record deal that he and his band had finally signed with. Rachel was studying for a patient she had coming in the next day, who suffered from insomnia since he was a child. It is sad and difficult to understand such troubles a human life can handle. Each time I see Rachel, I praise and respect her more by the day, for what she withstands as her daily job. While we were laughing and having a good time, I noticed that you were overlooking my shoulder as I glanced through the small, antique-looking oval mirror hanging on the beige wall before me. I looked back to see you still looking and embarrassed I lowered my head down to the table and my coffee. Nothing but a simple mug of coffee. The scent moved aimlessly through my nose opening my senses, and I breathed deeply to exhale my anxiety. It was time for you to go. Were you going to disappear again? What do I know if I cannot even bring about your name? Strolling by me, I felt your leg brush against my shoulder. I picked my head halfway up, and rotated my eyes towards the couch you chose to sit on. My palms began to condensate around the mug as I felt my face slowly burn. 

Feeling clammy and tense, I pulled out a Camel cigarette and lit it with a Zippo lighter once given to me by Luke. The filled lighter he had once given to me was going to be lit until all the smoke burned the liquid dry, I thought. Everything comes to end. Exasperated, I laid back on the couch and I noticed you pulled out a cigarette as well. Camel. You smoke the same brand as I, but we are still two distant strangers. I had to walk outside to get fresh air. The pressure was becoming to much to handle and if I saw your ebony brown eyes gaze towards me again, I would leave. 

I strolled my way outside and sat on the wooden chair of the table far right, near the snack shop and bathrooms. Feeling nothing but intense pressure on my chest release, I acted like I was going to make a phone call. Hanging up the fake call, I looked down to the cement-tiled floor and noticed the green grass peeking beneath each crack. Some curved around the tiles longer than others. I thought I heard footsteps coming from my left, but I dodged it focusing on the little grasses. The grounds of Colorado state could not seem any cleaner, and fresher. But at this moment, as smothered as I felt, the whole city of Cheyenne was empty and cold. I looked back up to notice you were standing in front of me, with your face towards the steps. Staying as silent as the wind that night, you moved your head my way, nervously. I gazed towards the steps and waited for you to speak. Finally turning my way, you smiled. I could not help but to smirk back for dry are my emotions, banished is my smile. Taken long ago, I could not express the way I felt that second.  Feeling like a stiffened rock, I was still impatient from the core. The innermost feeling asunder had connected so smoothly. You walked to the chair before me and leaned a hand on it. 

Without warning, the tall and dark beauty walked in. Her hair was blowing in the wind and the Navajo Indian colored skin was glowing from a distance. Her curves shaped a figure of a mountain, and I looked at my phone to see my own reflection spitting at me. My skin was so pale and cadaverous, and my long, drenched black hair wrapped around my slim, flimsy hips. I was dead in comparison. Without a doubt, Weaver, it hurt even more when you drifted towards her as if I was nothing but an ambient object lying on the table. I watched in no envy, more in pain and hopelessness, as you two walked back inside. It may seem to you as if nothing had happened within that second, or maybe it did. All I know is that my soul has always been too dark to respond or care, and nothing that I have can be lost, for I have nothing at all to destroy or even begin with.

I had left home and I sat before my black, rusted typewriter. My favorite activity in the world. Writing is the only clear way of expressing my emotions, so I would consider it more of a life savior than an activity. I may only have a heart for the words I spit on each page every damned day. Reading a vague piece of writing with hidden emotions is a metaphor of false hope, nearly like a raft on a lake. With no point nor direction to steer to, even the stillest waters cannot move a raft in the way we could imagine. Nevertheless, my day had ended, and again another path was fogged up once I dared to take a swim underneath the bridge and not over it; my wishful thinking had made it a parched stream of pain, a drained stream of pleasure, and a dive to reality. Remembering the moment of the coffee once sweet, now bitter, I also remembered the first time I had walked into the bistro. I wished I had never returned.

Anonymous.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

The chapter was very good. Hard when we compare ourselves to other people. Easy to fall short in vision of who we are. The most beautiful people can't see their beauty. A emotional chapter. Hard to think defeat before we had tried. Thank you for sharing the excellent chapter.
Coyote