Come back to me.
I’m sitting at the café in the middle of a storm, fingers typing fervidly on the keyboard; a starving artist on the rise. Rain patters on the window beside me, and I wonder if it can hear the lies floating onto the screen, if it can smell the deceit lingering within the prose.
Truth be told, I’m putting on a façade for those who wander and pass by, for those who dare to peek.
Writing has become my foe, or that’s what I tell myself. That’s what I’d like to think.
I’ve become lost in the harsh folds of the world, of realism and the like; of bills, and rent, and gas, of the anxiousness and bloody turmoil of both the future and the past. My skin has cracked, my flesh has bled, and I’m dreaming of waking the dead, of the screaming children scratching below the well.
I’ve attempted to read the erotic writings of romance and mafias, of paranormal and dystopias, of young adult and twisted, reimagined fairy tales, but nothing breaks the seal. I’ve attempted to bathe my mind in puzzles, to finish Peter Pan flying over a defeated Hook at sea, but that moment has gone to gray, that satisfaction has ceased. And when I take a moment to look at the unfinished stories, of the painted blood spread across pages, of the sex and gore dripping between lips and words, I find myself becoming less entranced in the plot, passion leaking away from each letter typed and written.
I then look up from the screen and notice the storm has stopped. Clouds dissipate from the dark, gray sky, branches freeze, the wind has seized, and everything; conversations, footsteps, breathing…just stills, quiets, ends. I slowly close my eyes and take it all in; the silence of it all— basking in the beauty of stillness and peace.
Once I open my eyes, I see him. My breath hitches, and I begin to type; lay out a scene.
There’s a man standing close by a bookshelf; a novel open in his hands. A black shaket—they call it—hugs his shoulders and secures his frame, while a hoodie peaks from underneath, suiting his muscular build. His fingers skim the words of the text, and he’s careful when he turns the crisp beige page, as if knowing what an honor it is to hold a piece of literature; a world in the palm of your hands. When he pushes up the bridge of his silver-framed glasses, I notice his perfectly shaped lips; full and thick, plumped by the slightest tug and lick of his tongue. His scruff is groomed, his hair is freshly cut, and I find myself becoming lost in his appearance, lost in his black glowy skin and wandering eyes, lost in awe. I see him sigh, huff out a breath and shake his head in disbelief, then modestly grin at the page. If I could see what he is reading, if I could stand beside him and see what themes affected him, I might have shared that same retort. Yet, I sit here, troubled and diminished by my own words, plagued by the stories I aspire to complete.
I sigh and lean back against my chair.
Frankly, I keep getting distracted.
I’m distracted by the lyrics the artist sings from up above, overpowering my thought process, the emotions I desire to keep. I’m distracted by these fingers that type like a college student drowned in essays, too focused on the eczema rashes that cover my knuckles and crinkle my skin. I’m distracted by the couple in the corner discussing apocalypses and aliens, the teens sharing social media pics and giggling over TikToks, the old man ruffling in his soiled backpack, the woman sipping her hot tea, a child clinking her spoon on the plastic cup. I’m distracted by my own heartbeat, the slow rise and fall of my chest, the bland taste in my mouth, the aroma of coffee beans, and lattes lingering in my nostrils. Fuck, I’m even inevitably distracted by my own convictions; on the war in Israel, of Matthew Perry’s death, of work, of dreams, of a career that I–
I take a breath.
I’m okay. Yes, I’m going to be okay.
But the question still remains: where is she? Where did my Writing—my true love for the art and its erotic creation—go?
Come back to me.