At 9:30 A.M., the thoughts in my mind begin to swirl, and they run,
painfully awake, not a moment of vacancy in my robotic cadaver with a soul. I cannot breathe
nor can I recognize my hands trembling when I reach for the door
of my flat. I will try to get through the day without morning coffee,
but it becomes evident the will to do so is no thicker in confidence than paper.
Eventually, my inhale and exhale beat in a symphony with my heart and it is beautiful.
It is only when I step outside and the wind plays with my hair do I think that I am beautiful.
In another universe, I, with my unkempt but lovely hair, choose to be free like the wind, running
away from the responsibilities of a broken child in an adult’s body. Unlike paper,
my heart has not been pulped and processed by man; I am liberty herself and I can breathe.
When I break out of the daydream, however, I am already paying the barista for my coffee,
and suddenly, my imagination and hope have been shut by an iron door.
Maybe it was when I discovered that locks don’t work on doors,
as long as the person on the other side has enough grit to tear it down, that the beautiful
phenomenon we call human nature isn’t beautiful at all. It’s as messy as the coffee
colored scars on my body, received while on the run
from the inevitable concept called time… I then think, “I’ll breathe
properly once I see my burial presented on the cover of the morning paper.”
Unfortunately, today I have yet to see a martyr’s death breaking the headline of the papers
with an ambiguity startling enough to assume it was suicide, exiting the door
of the expresso shoppe feels like a lost opportunity. How is one able to breathe
while constantly moving from place to place? There is no time for me to appreciate the beauty
of the barista who made my heavily caffeinated poison or a mother feline and her kittens running
across the narrow streets. For the things I love but cannot live for, I take another sip of coffee.
The cup doesn’t last much longer. It is many minutes before I arrive when I realize my coffee
is reduced to undissolved java grains. My traipse is accompanied by boys passing papers
out to strangers on the street (who seem in need of a shot of vodka, to forget), and I want to run
away in order to avoid the opening curbside shop doors
that welcome new faces I won’t be able to remember. I’m sure they are as beautiful
as the stars in the sky, but I’ve learned the worst thing to do in front of stars is to breathe.
As the gate to your grave comes into my peripheral view, the air stills as if her breath
is caught in her throat. I apologize for not being able to bring you any coffee.
Have I told you that the pictures and flowers that embellish your tomb are as beautiful
as the day they held your memorial? I would offer you the paper
one of the young men threw into my arms, but your face graces the front…I am trying to fight the door
that is threatening to open in my mind—the one that restricts my emotions from being on the run.
It feels like your beauty is still breathing.
That is the reason why my legs refuse to run, not even in response to my desire for coffee.
You see, I’ve realized my emotions couldn’t possibly be blank like paper. This is why, perhaps, my sobs escape the door.