Most nights I feel as if I'm not inside any walls. The cars that pass on the street outside sound like they are right next to me, and I hear the birds as if they are in the room with me, and I am not protected by anything.I am out in it, out in the night, yet I am seperated. I don't feel the wind, only hear it, and everything is still and artificially lit and safe. I am safe.
I hear the train whistle as if I am on that train, only without the risk of the crash because it's all in my head. The people rushing by, the trees and the towns, the train coming towards my train, and you on the sidewalk before the crash.
And I feel nothing before you disappear from my sight, maybe forever.
You weren't the only one that made promises to live forever. In fact, you were number three. You said I was another kind of person, the kind that would never die because I had something in me. I argued that there was nothing in anyone and nothing in anything, that everything was small.
Never get used to anything, I said.
The most important thing you ever did for me was introduce me to coffee, which I said I hated. I hated the smell of it on your breath. But you told me I wasn't supposed to like it, that no one likes it the first time they taste it, yet they come to like it over time.
And maybe I would too. You poured me a glass, and I forced it down because you said I had something in me.
When you left, the only thing I ever drank was coffee. I drank it every morning, all day, even at night, so I stayed awake for hours waiting for you in the dark. I even got splitting head aches when I stopped drinking coffee. They knew my name in the cafe, but spelled it wrong on the cup.
And now I don't even taste the aftertaste.