the boy you brought to the comfort
of your cold room wasn't used to making
your sugarless, strong coffee. he made his regular
coffee five consecutive times, emptying
the mug in the sink and preparing it again
only to repeat the whole process.
when he reached the fifth mug, and there
wasn't much coffee left in your black matte container
where you love keeping your coffee,
he thought to himself with excess irritation,
and a bit of disgust,
yelling through his teeth and putting you in pain,
"how the fuck can you drink a coffee so plain?"
//
the girl you thought would understand and feel
a lot warmer and loving than the entire world
sat on the couch of your lounge,
and looked around with a perfectly done
cocked eyebrow,
a look in her eyes making your heart stop
only momentarily,
a look you knew meant that she wouldn't be able
to cope with your messy house,
so you thought
how would she, then, feel about living with all of you?
//
the other boy you ushered into your sad life
loved that your eyes were wide and bright,
but he really hated that you spent most of your time
on pages nobody read, getting emotional on paper and emptying pens,
and you were kinda okay with that until the whole thing had to end
because you couldn't live with someone who
didn't understand that there's always tension in your head that you have to relieve,
so if you can't fight people or break things or scream,
you write these words for nonexistent people you wish felt just like me.
//
a boy approached you on saturday night
while you spoke to me on the table
where you spilled a bit of your coffee over me, and ignored it
because you know i don't mind it, and probably like it just as much as you do.
the boy looked okay, but you didn't think he was any exceptional news,
so you didn't care much about him and went on with your talk
about the girl you fell in love with on the train this morning.
you said she smelled of chamomile,
and i know that's your favourite smell
because it reminds you of the warm sunlight.
but you didn't see the girl at all again,
and i can tell you were still sad about it even after a week
of your very brief and silent encounter.
//
it's three in the morning,
you're lying awake in your cold bed,
wondering whether you'd ever wake up
one night with someone who loves you
lightly snoring by your side
and making your squeaking mattress a lot more heavenly
than it ever was.
//
it's four in the morning,
and you've given up on your phone,
so you reach for me with a fountain pen
and tell me how you miss the feeling of fullness in your head.
you say you feel broke without love;
cold and homeless and jobless.
you reckon you can just be a hopeless sentimentalist,
but state with such emphasis that sentiment is
such a requisite in the life of us
because it would be miserable if people weren't as sensitive as they are.
you say strength doesn't stem from concealing your own emotions,
and that weakness is the inability to purely exist as humane as you are.
//
at five in the morning you pass out after suffering
with a mild headache you manage telling me about in a line of poetry.
i'm by your pillow, on the side of your head,
and i can feel the blood moving in your hand that rests against
the leather skin of my anatomy.
i feel sorry, somehow,
and wonder whether there will ever be somebody who can love you
after you completely fill me
and abandon me on a shelf in your messy closet.
