I awake in a familiar, uneasy state. It is my normal. When I see her face, I am brought back down. I remember everything we said and everything we did and I am at peace.

I think, “There is something different about her,” then I squash that cliche and I move to, “There is something I don’t understand about her.” Although a bit more melancholy, I find–to me–this suits her more.

I hold her a few minutes longer before quietly detaching myself from body and bed. I slip my pants on and wander out of the room, ready to investigate the morning.

Before I leave, I make coffee, enough for two, three cups for her, one for me. I rest the thermal carafe on her end table with a cup and a post-it which, while crudely drawn, I hope makes her smile.

I sneak out without waking her, turning to take her in one last time before disappearing into the biting coolness of winter.


I was sat in a bar or a cafe or a library or whatever. It doesn’t matter. I remember the feeling. I could sense the danger, felt it in my bones, as one does. Was that all it was? A feeling, a sense? Feelings are often meaningless when they do not derive from any place of evidence. However, using logic on feelings, it doesn’t work. And there it was. Danger. Danger lurking, looming, seeping into my core- but is danger so different from passion? Why should one bring us joy and the other doom, regret, fear? Both drive us in some way, generally toward what we think is “The Better.” I am not afraid of danger. No, I know of danger. And I know keep it near my heart. I know it as a friend.


Inspired by my best friend and a creative mastermind, Berlyn ❤  Specifically, this.

Image: “Au Charbonnage” Café, Vincent van Gogh.