The Last Cup of Coffee with Angelica

We should've said more. I should've spoke poetry to you, love.

Notes to Persephone

The Last Cup of Coffee with Angelica

Draft 1

By: Chase L. Currie

 

The solitude of this life pulled me back to my old haunt. It wasn’t morning, and I didn’t care for the coffee; I purely wanted to hear the chattery of those lively souls in a moody shop. In truth, heart breakin’ sad kind facts of this walk, I wanted to see you. It had been the reason these rotten hands found their way back this Hole in the wall.

In the depths of the winter painting the trees, I stood behind a lovely couple about to tie the knot staring ahead at you. My heart drum of the words lingering in my chest. Unsure if I could hum any of my smooth jazz. Your eyes, glancing at me, frozen those old bloodhounds in their seats. I was once again lost for words.

                My feet step forward with the isolation of this Poet’s heart. What a kind smile bloomed on your lips, and you asked me more than ‘How’s your day going?’

You liked art, and I liked you white.

We sat across from each other, the flower of your lips never fading, even in the bitter winds of this witch’s town. You told me all the tales I longed to hear about your life. Those little stories of laughter like roses in a winter haven. I longed with these sinful eyes to see you in more than my grave of dreams. I wanted to know what you were like in the morning, to watch you ball up in my arms under the glow of the stars, to notice your toes wiggling in black socks. My hands throbbing with decay, wanted to feel your fingers wrapping in their gasp.

I wanted to smell your hair in a hug after a sad day.

My soul wanted to linger with you on a blissful summer wind.

My heart longed to be removed from my chest, placed in your, and this childish dream of Persephone would be left to be atomization in the depths of this hated woods.

Let the Raven peek her corpse.  

                I wanted these things; every moment I came into this haunt, I wanted them more. But my throat would not utter the words. My heart wept in the stillness of my fear.

A child’s despair caged in a man’s skull.

                The lovely couple born in the house of the Lord garb their steaming hot drinks and found a place to sit lost in themselves.

                Your words pulled me from our daydream, ‘Your regular? White Chocolate?’

                ‘Yes, please.’

                We spoke of little nothings; I sighed, taking the coffee - piss poor if you had to know - stepped back out into the cold, strolled on down the road lost in the dead season of time, never to be seen again.

                Only heading back to my ghost of Persephone, lost in the loneliness of her bleak heart.

If only  

If only  

I had said more to you, love.