Updated: Apr 3, 2022
I sit at my desk, in my blue velvet chair, its corners well known, shaped just for me. Everything is slightly worn, chipped curves and split wood. There is a settled in feeling that radiates what home feels like, its comforts and open arms. The kind of place you can sink into and smile.
I sit at my desk without commitments or deadlines, not in favor of a passionate tale to write or something intoxicating to read, not even to find my breath again; discover ease in my weary limbs.
I sit at my desk looking out the picture window; its panes reflect warm shifts of light, soft, and buttery illuminations.
I sit at my desk searching the glass, wringing my hands together in an anxious gesture, waiting to see what I long for the most—lying in wait for a hopeful impossibility to appear, green eyes hunting it down in feverish heartbeats.
I beg the window with its perfectly fitted corners; it’s creamy white trim to encase my reveries parading in circles in the spaces where time stops and lazy dreaming takes over, turning grand thoughts into something that aches instead of beams.
I sit at my desk, growing impatient, impeding judgments of anger washing over my prudently put together milky golden landscape.
I despise anger, a useless emotion. It drips into my blood, snaking its way close to my heart, dancing at its edges, raging the siren of war. It rushes and flips over inside of itself, a growing thing that bids to give me new skin.
I sit at my desk, the gleam of the glass giving way to the shadows of nightfall. One lone streetlamp sputters on its electricity before it originates to life. I see its small flicker of light, its tiny obscurities casting a ghastly glare over the pavement.
It sparks on while the moon wakes.
I break into puddles of ignorant daylight that thought it would keep shining into the night.
I sit at my desk; I see nothing. I do not see twin beams of a car’s headlights leading its procession up the road, turning its glower onto my driveway, slicking itself over the red paint on the wooden siding.
I do not hear the harsh metal of a door spit open, and slam shut. My heart does not race at the sound of thick footsteps, sure-footed on their path. I see no glimpse of him rounding the corner, the window catching his familiar figure.
There is no serendipitous moment where eyes catch one another at the same second; there is no shiver of excitement passed between one gaze to another.
The glass does not reflect his lengthy body stepping up to the door, twisting the knob, finding it free of its lock, free to push open, and come inside.
I sit at my desk; the blackness only just lit with the smallest piece of synthetic electricity, the stars in the black sky holding up illuminations end.
I sit at my desk, looking out the window, finding myself looking back, not the face I have greedily conjured from fond memories into existence.
I investigate the glass, forcing myself to study my reflection, examine its distorted places softened by the small lamp at my side, echoing the same small effort as its twin, failing the darkness in the street.
I look at myself and try to see the things that live delicately inside of me, past the daydreams and false realities, past the bodily desires and the aches of missing. I don’t blink, my eyes draining of their impending tears, a burning building at their base.
I sit at my desk, forcing my voice to tell my reflection in a shaky, whisper of a declaration, not losing eye contact with the picture-perfect window that wanted something lovelier to reflect, that he is not coming back.
Not at nightfall, not at mornings sunrise, not in the versions of worlds spun with precision.
The place reserved in my mind for hopeful recitations now settles a nightmarish shadow. One that speaks in grim accusations, drenched in a raven call for nevermore, obsidian eyes speaking to me-