the Valentine's winter

It's ending pretty soon, perhaps in a couple of hours.
And this picture of this actress who's quite beautiful, who was once the it girl but doesn't really act anymore , has painted her eyes with structure highlighting eyeliner, her eyes sly and slither and the whole picture almost melts.
But the disentangle of the photographs particles hardly matter; it's ending in a few hours.
my sister has been depressed for the longes time. almost everyone in my family has been clinically diagnosed with depression at some point, we all fear heavily, accumulate all the masses's posible judgment upon our shoulders, us, the valentines, sensitive and sentimental, and deeply impressionable ,have at some point felt that our existence upon this earth is pointless, such a feeling was so deeply embedded we could not sleep or shower, without feeling, like waste of water and oxygen.
I am not at all aware if it is in our genes, or merely in the upbringing and the years and years of living in an isolated house by the algea infested pond that attracted all sorts of animals and plants, I am not sure if it were the magnificent wither we were exposed to as children, if it were the miles of books staked in my fathers study, I am not sue if it were our parents's hinted, inaudible portrail of a large and beautiful world that made us seem like our being upon it was of no use, it didnt need us.
but we all got ba's then ma's then some ph.d', we all got married and settled down and saw, that yes we were small but there was a slight displacement in the worlds possession due to our existence.
we all un-maniced.
but my sister, m most beautiful sister, my most troubled sister who aways came home at the tips of nights, when the the earth rotated away from the moon she would stumble in.
my sister who had boys with grand futures as doctors and lawyers, NBA players and late night hosts, all at tips of her troubled fingers, has been depressed for the longest time.
I was 10 when she was 16 and she had always seemed sad to me, I would ask her these little, obviously oblivious questions and she would try her very best not to terrify me with her dark, obscure objecting view of the world.
my sister hardly cared for the pond ir plant, or algae, she hardly cared for the feel of burning sunshine in a freezing afternoon, the books she read, the books we all cried over, she read without the slightest faciel displacement.
we have all been sad, to clinical extents, us the valentines.
but maggi Valentine has been depressed for the longest time.
but that hardly matters, its ending in a few hours.
I had this boy in my class when I was in highschool, and highschool is such a difficult time to lok back at, for several , endless reasons, that the person who was a jumbled up, insecure version, a naive uncunning version of me had been in the most unnecessary of pains.
highschool reminds me of the fact that my society never stops judging or bullying, it only grows old enough to learn to conceal it in the forms of hellos please, goodbyes and thank you-s,
high school most of leeches at me, at the little bit of feeling I hardly feel anymore.
when I am in a classroom, and sunshine seeps in, and I am so young hat everything I do is impressive.
I come back home reading "lolita" on the way back, I make my self some tee, I read the reviews for the latest Broadway re-make of "waiting for godot" I make m self a bath and breath properly.
I was 16.
now I set at my window, sunshine seeps in, and nothing I do is impressive, I will not grow to become a sensation.
I a grown, and I no longer rasp the definition of a sensation.
"I am sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody"
this boy who was beautiful, and apparently intelligent, did not see within me what I saw within him,  even though, I more that stupidly assumed (in my hight of impressiveness) that it did not matter to this intellectual that I was not as beautiful as my sister, not as attractively depressed and self harmful, not as darkly, glisningly dangerous.
I was stale and dull, I carried a copy of withering hights with me everywhere assuming that will suddenly make me eccentric and essential enough, to get a smart pretty boy to like me, to make my consumption of oxygen (at times overconsumption) worthwhile.
but that hardly matters, its ending in a few hours.
goodness gracious, less than hours.
we all (the Valentine's) swallow the tangles of fear that collide in our throats,  embark upon streets scatterd   across separate continents.
almost as if we have now been displaced of the mother womb and nothing begins to matter, non of it, not our fears or lonesomeness, or stark, raving, indigestible ways of living.
we could wove a few words,  ge a few laughs, more one or two in the audience but eventually we all decay, and us 9the valentines) understand that a few notches too well for our own good
maggi most of all.
in winter nights, no one walks the streets, and that is when we bloom the most.
when we are not hindered by the clutter f asses rushing to do their business as if they are not gathered by one great poetic cease.
as if we will not all end up in the same fucking ground, we pretend we dont know each other.
but us (the valentines) appreciate winters freezing late nights, in wich there are no ungrateful, swift motioned human beings who do not take to the savor of a minuit.
"in a minuit there is time, to murder and create"
but that hardly matters
its spring in minuits.

winter's ending.

grief: back from Alaska.

he struts out threw everything, unafraid, untamed, he flounsis the great fitnessn of his arms, the great whitness of his skin, and I am old, and crippled and crinkled, and I think I might stink, for all my white t-shits turn a bit green under the arm.
he says hello to me, laughs with me, acts as if I am some great ancestor of his, he is the son of my son,or at least could be, and I am horrible to think so, but he is so young and, so fresh, I believe perhaps, if I could smell he would smell like bananas dipped in full fat milk.
in the eyes of the court, and almost everyone, I am a wrongful, terrible man. but this is love I feel, for the wilderness within a young fruitful, idiotic man. for the innocence, and dark intentions, for his bathing within all that the earth could offer, I open up my folded chair, and I glare and glare, as he strolls through it all.
he embraces me for what seems to be less than 1 tenth of a second, undesired, I sit in the corner, how could I be.
 he is a mere boy, and the world awaits his triumph and victory, his well written widely read poetry, I will say, I knew this boy, I love this boy, the way no man should love a boy.

giant.

I am joining you now, and it has been years, I have died an old ragged maid, and you a mere spotless boy.
so many men have held me, grabbed me by the waist, swayed me around lifted me off the ground, so many brought me rings and mansions.
so many married me, and introduced me to their own privet world, and has been shut away from mine.
but there was a day, I recall, there was a day when I was 22 and you were 23, and i could see the sky engulfed by the redness of the sunset, and we were giants in the eyes of others, superstars, the talk of the town.
but in your arms, and in my arms, we were the children ,we were the tiny terrified infants, the mere specs in contrast to the grandness of the world.
and today everyone has forgotten me, I am not on any magazines I am not in any movies, and if I go down the streets screaming my name aloud, no one turns, no one shouts, not photographers or flash lights, I have been, in my unattractive old age, abandoned at the corner.
and you use to say I was a rare jewel thats why everyone satires, but I didn't believe any of it.
now john pushes me around in my little wheel chair, and reads to me the words of yeats, he is a good man.
I could say, you died young and the world mourned you for a second or, two, magazines spread out your name in wide spread ink, but the moment I knew that I am forever a giant, that I will never be a child in your arms, I died too, except, no one knew.

cunning

composed. with two cubes of sugar, the perfect cup of tea, in a perfect evening looking afternoon, hardly any sun, an overdose of wistful, shimmery, stark, pallor, snow.
she crosses her bony legs, peeking through her oversized fur coat, she reaches towards the cigarette and imprisons it  within the opening of her chapped crimson lips, she looks around, and suicide beautifully inhabits the corners of everything in sight, a side effect of winter, she thinks, and in this town it`s winter 80% of the time, so in other words, suicide is always around.
suicide is the time between your finished cigarette and your unlit one, suicide is stuffed inside the compressed partecels of expensive high heal shoes, suicide is larking threw the empty corners of a consumed cup of coffee.
suicide is widely drawn across every word on every page of every book she`s ever read.
suicide is beautiful.
suicide is seductive.
suicide is inevitable.
suicide is cunning.

do i dare, and do I dare.

I let you walk my very core, let you sink into my sacred locations, I let my every hole become a part of you, a part of the being we`ve collaboratlly become,I let you see my weakest moments, and my weakest words. I let you have a front seat audience to my horrid, wretched well hidden wounds. and I regret not a single slithered moment of all of our scattered acquaintance, friendship, love.
for within you, I have discovered the being within me, that has been longing, nostalgically, wistfully, quietly, unhappily longing for something.
you.

the frozen poet.

I use to own a book, I use to own this book, i use to own the papers within the thick forests coming out of it, I use to own the ink covering it, i use to own the chapped wooden floor it uselessly lyes upon, I use to lye atop the cold reeking bed, i use to own you within it.
the stool iced cold , but I sat, me the frozen poet, with everymuscel fiber blood , nerve, bone within me, deeply, apathiticly frozen. you caress me, and I sleep. to the melody of a thousend screams.
soiled, you are.
spoiled, you are.
uncoiled,you are.
and I am a speck,
upon a star.
pushed,shoved
far too far
I reach to you, to your anointing fingertips, to your flushed, bloodshot cheeks, and I peak, just peak, and I dream. but you clutched my very soul and we fell beneath the grounds of law, tore down the walls of existence, into holes and horizons of our own .
but you are no longer mine.
I do not own this book lying quietly on the floor, your face dose not peer in through my old forgotten door.
my bed remains empty, my heart remains frozen.

giant filthy feet.

yes, I have.
it seems as if I am this completely isolated being, no one begins to understand my deepest thoughts, though my unusual dreams are heartbreakingly simple.
I am not who you think I am.
I do not wake up to hurt, I do not sleep to dream.
I am shattered.
I am steps, mere steps away from total and complete break down.
but I seem ever so powerful so you step on me with your giant filthy feet, and your piercing words, and I laugh at you, to show you how immensely pathetic your attempts are as I slowly, and gradually , break, within.
yes, I have been hurt, yes I am hurt.

spots (part one)

when I was 16 my best friend commited suiside.

she stood between the leaves, and the overgrown grass, she moved around it, as if a part of the ongoing motion of the wind between the flowers, if my heart hadent been beyond repair, it would have felt something.

I step, tread, lightly, and I glimpse from a distance, and I feel as if all that holds me together evaporates.

I cling and I cling, as she sits, lightly upon the cold bench, she gently tucks a lump of shiny brown hair behind her ear, and flips the pages of her book, I wish I knew her book, I wish I knew her name.

Instead, I sit , always sit, miles away, and painfully, hyperventilating-ly  stare, at an object I am too terrified to approach, nothing within me feels rest, not even the hairs at my lower bake.

It is noon, and I am awake, what joy it is to be awake, I get to be a being that breaths, the air she breaths.

It has been 60 days and 5 hours, and I am slowly becoming nothing but an eye, fixed on her, at this time, she is usually coming back, from her university, and heading to her apartment, at this time, she makes tea, and I fear I know so much, and yet not.

I do not know her name.

But what are names, mere letters given to us, they do not define us.

I go back to my melloncholy, my solitude, my paint and glue and madness, and where I am who I am.

 she has bewitched me, her hair is all I ever paint.

when I was 16 I thought abseloutly nothing of the world, I didnot have compelling  urges to fight every spic of air in my way, life was a mere straight line path, until Eddie commited suicide, and I was forces to wake up, 

grow up. 

I saw and felt things my previous self didnot know existed, it almost never occured to me that aperson might actually choose their own death, besto it upon them self even.

it was alot to prosses.

eddi was the kind of guy who awaked to live, who had wisdom, byoned his years, he constantly refered to all the reasons ther are to find life beautiful, and he`d always say, "the simplist of pleasuers sre of so little finantial worth" in the morniong he would listen to great mello music with a delishous milky cup of coffe, on the bus staring at the wounder that is the sky, he would spen hours painting and repainting, it was our'thing' we would smoke a joint and throw paint all over the place and would call it art. so for a moment there I refused to belive he took his own life, I thought maybe, somone framed it, I went into the deepest stages of denial, mass blaming, all of it, I was in the deepist pits of shit. woundering why my best friend, my good honest, loyal friend, who always laughed with me, gave me a pat on the bak when I was in dire need of it, and smoked pot with me , all the suddne, and without anywarning, wouild tie a rope over there own nek, and step off a chair.
I tried to get the pises togither when the polise dissmissed it as a simple case of teen suicide.
a simple case.
what horror.
I asked all the people who has seen him prior to his death, his mother, barely getting her words togither  said "I..I was making pot rost in the itchen he came in said he wasnt hungry and that he had to study, it was normal  for him to study at this time, so I wasnt considered" she drew in a breath "and then, all of a sudden he was gone, never to come back, and I can explain it, and it is ripping me apart, how could this happen, how have we not seen any signs,I...I dont think he did it, it must have been an accident IT MUST"and then everything she said onward was far to unintelligible. 

a cup of tea, and a single tear.

I come to drink my tea, nothing more nothing less, it has been, or it seems, that centuries have past, and I am drowned, drenched, within this utter state of numbness, in which my top priority, my top pleasure, is a cup of tea.
 my rain coat is wet, it has been raining for days, my garden my leafs are ever so abandons, and I am inside, drinking my tea, thinking of him.
it has become a routine worn out thought, nothing surprises me anymore, not the beauty of moonlight, or the speed at which my tea becomes cold, or the occasional runaway tear.
I stand before my porch, it is a dim night. and it is a state I have grown ever so accustomed to, a state of pure emptiness, and wretched intangible leisures, and a cup of tea, and an old memory, and a single tear.

a single runaway tear.

sue

sue, was a friend of mine, she was the exact kind of girl that had so much within her tiny, somewhat emaciated exterior. and when I say so much, I mean of everything. of words and images, and heartaches and heartbreaks. of coffee, and rain, of frost and sunshine, of worn out , torn out book pages, of stolen words and stolen glances.

sue, was all.
and I wished I would be a bit, of that all, within her.

lue

A breath, a mere breath, is my current top goal, its all I ever strive for, a breath.
My red balloon, and your red balloon, my red umbrella, and your red umbrella, I hadn’t ever felt such joy, I never had. Until our umbrellas and balloons met.
I wanted to save you.
But here is everything, and here is nothing, here I am next to your bed, next to you, or next to what was you. With my unlit cigarette, holding your fingertips, or what was your fingertips.
I wanted you to struggle, to fight, and you were smiling, I should have known.

The nurse called it, and walked away, gently, slowly, as if a gentle way of saying “time of death 3:30” can make it any less tragically hollow.
There is a moment, a moment parallel to nothingness, filled with screams and sounds of pleading.
Pleading for what, pleading to who?
Here I sit, struggling for a breath, because a breath is all I ever hope for.

gray room.

 she clung to him, and as the sense of anointing joy that usually showers her at his touch kicked in, she drew in a deep breath.

 They walked out side, rapped in there coats and shawls, admiring the shimmering coat of snow, and slowly sipping there coffee,  he was most intelligent, and most lonely, unless he was with her.

I cannot begin to speak of these two as if they were your ordinary she and him, they were your classic transgressive fellows of society. The outcasts.

She was a lady, with a habit, of sniffing white powder, and he was the man of the house, the provider.

And in there lucid moments of day dreaming, in there bake yards in her white gown in his blue collerd shirt, they would stair ant the wonders of nature, the blue bird, the green grass, the joys of life, slightly, without being fully present.

And in such moments, they would compose the worlds greatest positions, words and colors and note, endless notes, they were artists, with an edge.

don’t ALL artists have an edge?

But eventually the land of colors in which they lived, as all great things, came to an end.

There words were no longer words, the blue bird fled, and thee bake yard was hardly ever a yard, and there powder, tragically ceased to exist.

Her was no longer the intellect, she no longer the lady, a mere man and a mere women, mere helpless souls in the city of helpless, souls who were once the providers of all great things. 

l'amour c'est de la merde

the circus are in Paris, I am in Paris, I am within his arms, and he holds me.

I have always wanted to see a clown, I have always wanted to ride a carousel. places with lots of lights, food with lots of sugar, and warm figures tightly pressed against mine, are just the recipe to forget you for a moment.
he is gentle and he is kind and he is just enough to distract me.
but I am, and oh so tragically, in the wrong arms.
we get into a cafe, a tiny one right next to the tent, and I order une chocolat chaud  with extra marchmellos, I am wrapped within a soft coat, and it is unbelievable, it is most unbelievable, that I am surrounded with all the beauties of the world, and all I could think about is you.

schizophrenia

I run around , the thin walls of this hospital, it saddens me that I now feel at home, if I do, then that only proves that I have declared defeat.

and that is something I dont ever intend on declaring

yes, they do all live within me, and I do admit so.

but dose that mean I have declared defeat, not as far as I know, but then again, most of the time I dont really know much.

The voices made there debut only 4 years ago, in comparecant to all the girls with me, I am a new comer apparently.

they form a fortress around your brain, locking thoughts and influences from coming in and out.

the whispers consumed all that surrounds me, they came out of the tv, the radio, at some point even the light bulb spoke to me, all announcing the same declaration, you are absolutely worthless, why should you even live.

at first I thought they were mere insecurities, scarcely anything to worry about.

tell my insecurities started talking to me taking the shapes of bizarre creatures.

it felt as if I was living in a prison of my own mind, aliens wanted to abduct me, terrorist held me hostage, all withing the few yards that are my apartment.

my mother came to visit me, only to discover the shrine which was my apartment and the disarray which was me.

she at first thought that I was on drugs, she tested me, and I passed.

there was only one other probability, one which she so grievously attempted to nudge away, however she eventually caved in and took me to the psychologist.

after further examination , the doctor spoke one word, that changed my life as I know it.

schizophrenia.

a mental illness , with side effects such as delusions and paranoia

the word schizophrenia became my life, it labeled me, consumed me, and took full control of every thought, hope, dream, nightmare.

oh yes, nightmare, I sure as hell had a whole lot of those.

all my writings became hallucination, my paintings blur, all passion turned into pure and utter hopless hatred.

my mother, recommended by my doctor, put me where I am, this mental institution, this hospital, this cage, this home.

it terrifies me, I consider it home, the girls here more friends to me my own sisters, the medicine better then any food, the nurses touch, better then my own mothers.

I am being discharged in a week, I wont go back, no to where I am all alone, under the complete mercy of my very own demons.

I wouldnt allow it.

"hello cassy" here it begins, ok, haah, hoooh, take another deep breath, haaah hoooh "doctor, oh doctor I need hepl I really need help" the doctor wasnt as concerned as I hoped, another breath"Benjamen franklin wants me to die doctor, I was reading a book yesterday, and he told me so, he says If I dont I am going to destroy this whole building, doctor I am afraid, everyone`s safety and well being is at risk! you must do something"

out of breath I just stared at him, now I could see genuine concern in his eyes, much more sincere then my own father`s who hasnt visited me once since I have been here, how am I suppose to leave, and head back to them.

"oh, relax cassy, its all going to be all right" he itched his bald spot, and whispers something to the nurse, who went to git my medication.

thank god.

I am not going any were.

I do realize this only emphasizes the level of my insanity,

But

it also sequres my happines.

At the garden, sipping my coffee, thinking of you..

dear taz: this was fully inspiered by your blog and writtings( inspired is the nice way to say it, stole is more like it)

its just that it was exactly the kind of thing I loved fully revolver around sadness, life, coffee..it had a mellon cholli style to die for, i loved it, so here is this , story? I am not sure what to call it.

I didnt praticulary like my complete dipendence on you, or the livel of depth wich my love for you had reached..

though you constantly told me and reassured me that your not going anywhere I still held on, stubornly, to that feeling at the bottom of my gutts. that which pocked me whenever I felt sad and the first person who came to mind was you.

as I rapp my self with my blanket, my bottmless, endless, pott of coffe seems to be stepping in , and providing the insperation that you took when you left.

now maybe I am miss understood, or maybeI over react, or maybe, just maybe, its cristel clear, and I am only denieng its reality, because its too hard to accsept, you dont really love me do you?

I poor some more coffee and simply watch, as I sit in my own back yard, just watch, the little beatl, without a care in the world, or the blue bird, sailing the skies, any time it gets a bit ruff, he could just, spread your wings and escape! let the air caresses your feathers.

how I envy you.

honey, I know, I know I stood back, I know I pretended not to care, and when you wanted to hold my hand, I didnt give it to you..

but I swear I only did it cause I was scared! scared of loving you, of losing you, every one I ever loved hurt me, its a defense mechanism, how am I suppose to know that you wont hurt me?

I take another sip.

you know, If you give me your hand right now, I would hold on to it and never let go.

fish ,chapter one

As I was walking in the darkest of nights,I looked up at the sky, so intoxicating, theses little sparkles of joy which we call stars, it was a fascination of main, there quite alluring..

I heard moans coming out of the bushes behind me as I was walking away from talzainia, the great castle and laboratory, of the prince and wizard, jalama.

you see we, are the creatures from forgen land, as they call us, we come to investigate the relations between man and fish, yes, fish.

about 2986 years ago, a man , a legend, named sojel morris, we call him s.morris, fell Of his boat, which he used, to sail and fish, as he fell over he fainted and drowned, except he didnt really drowned

he was saved.

a fish, yes a fish to all of you non believers out there, they picked him up as the water was making rewins of his body, and in that cold stormy night, they planted him with scales, so he could breath, clothed him with rugs so he could move , and provided him with shelter, so he could be.

so yes, with th tale of this little man, our story was created.

the moaning hasn't stopped.

i looked around the bushes, and found the source, I found old chipped feet, then legs and a back, then the back of an old bald head , it was a small man holding a cane, lying on the grass, moaning.

"are you ok sir?" I say

" huh, kid go away, hes about to come back at any minuet now"

"who?"

"salmian"

"whos salmian?"

"the great and mighty salmian what do they teach you at school now a days?"

" i am thirty"

"who cares, now go away!"

"suit your self'

I turn my back to him and walk away, I stare at the stares again, just as attractive as ever arent they?

bshoooooooom, an ear pricing sound is produces, I turn around to find the course, lights, all sorts of lights, brilliant blues, and warm browns, and fiery reds, all come out of his magnificent hands, this is salmian whom the old man talked of.

magnificent indeed.

Let it be

I see you with her , I look closely, I can see it in your eyes, shes got you, you cant look away from her can you?1

I take a deep breath and approach the two of you talking in the corner, so interested in each other, its like you dont even notice the world around you, I take a deeper breath, I sure as hell didnt sign up for this much pain when I first smoked that cigarette with you..2

my low cut black cocktail dress, my fancy hair do and, my gallons of perfume , were all a waist, with her in there, i am sure you wouldnt notice me even if i was naked..3

I dont understand what went wrong, I never wanted to be your friend you know, I always wanted to be more..4

But now, you with her, you love her, and i am just looking, helplessly..5

will I ever be good enough?6

I remember that day, when my double shift had ended,and I was in such a bad mood, I ran out of the restaurant, just to discover that it was raining, my hair became wet, my expansive coat rewind,what a bad night,I thought, I quickly walked to the buss station, and hopped on the buss, I just wanted to git home, and I sat on the seat, you were right next to me, reading your little book, without a care in the world, it was the first time I ever layd eyes on you, I didnt know, you didnt know , you were going to change my life as I know it.7

my hair droopy, my eyeliner smugged under my eyes, I looked terrible, wile you, perfectly still, sitting in your seat, with your golder skin, and your caramel hair.8

I insistently hated you, fishing in my bag for cigarette, I couldent find any, I turned to you, so angry and humiliated that I had to ask you for some, you look away from your perfect little book and smiled, why did you have to be so nice? now I cant hate you!9

"sure"you handed me a cigarette and smiled,you lit it, and say" hi, I am mark"10

god mark, its been five years, I have been IN LOVE WITH YOU for five years, you still cant tell?11

and now you found her..12

and i could tell you love her, cause you do that little thing you do whenever you get excited, the whole, ear itching thing..13

thank you, thank you very much, you have berried me in my dark whole, and simply walked away..14

and worse of all, I cant even hate you for being so inconsiderate, all I could do is stand back and pretend to be happy for you, you found someone.15

well mark, I found someone FIVE YEARS AGO!16

but that someone wont open there eyes and see, that I am right here!!

Breathless

Its Sunday morning, I had already drank my cup of coffee, and in this magnificent place that is new York city, no one is empty handed, no one is free minded.

I throw my hat on, and I am good to go, It feels as if this day has no point or purpose,and each and every one of my idle thought are about to emerge in hours and hours to come of there ceaseless companions, more idleness.

I am counting the hours to which I must endure this ungodly Sunday.

I must find me a distraction.

step step step, I inter the library, and dive into the great books with there endless tales.

hours pass by, mission accomplished, I am distracted.

I walk out and and the sun has sintered in the middle of the sky, is it the afternoon already?

another distraction catches my eye, its quite an exquisite one.

a small female with a pixie short hair, strutten the streets of new York..

"hello there" I swoop in and take my hat off knowing that its 1960, and chivalry is slowly slowly dying, I reckon a gal could appreciate a move like this.

"hey" she so coldly says, oh, I know what kind of girl she is, shes the extraordinarily crewel kind, the beautiful and the holding back kind..

"what`cha doin" I say, trying to somehow smooth my way in.

she, standing with her back to me only turns her head to my direction, "non of your goddamn buisness thats what I am doin"

and shes got quit a mouth on her, oh I know exactly what to do...

"oh, I am sorry if I have disturbed you ma`m, good day" I say, with a slightly offended look on my face, take my hat off once more, and slowly slowly walk away waiting for her to..

"wait" it always works "um, well, I cell newspapers if that interests you?"

I stop, turn around, and draw a wide smile on my face, as if the offence that I previously felt, has now magically disappeared.

I smiled coyly and looked down at an attempt to charm her..

"well look at that, inst it my lucky day!" I said, she stared and smiled polity, it was clear that she wasn't falling for any of my hard efforts, she was only being polite, but that only made me want her more..

"I havent gotten my news paper yet" she again, forced a smile.

"well , there you go sir"

"thank you ma`m"

I walked away, lit my Cuban tobacco, and tried to find some sort of a loop whole...

I slowed my steps down , hoping to have come with the answer before its too late.

I took two steps forward, and there it is ! a coffee shop,right next to the girl`s little newspaper place or whatever she likes to call it, and its out doors, right next to her.

perfect.

I feel like a creep though, yes she is a show stopper, however, dose that give me the right to pursue her so intensely?

in my moment of wearisome , I took a seat at the coffee house, and saw her right in front of me, laughing and talking, and smiling, it was uncanny, I cant let her go!

I wont.

she turned around from her customer, to count the money, and caught my glance, she smiled, this time it was sincere, why this time I wonder, wow, she`s so intangible !, again it only made me want her more..

shes walking, shes getting closer, is she walking my direction? I turn around just to chick..

"hello there, I see your still here" she says and smiles again, who am I? I cant recognize my self anymore! about 15 minuets ago, I was the bachelor of the town, so unaffected by women and there mere charm, so confident and carefree, but the person I am now is much like a little child, so terrified by her approach.

I take a deep breath and try to cling to what little composure I have left.

" well I came to the coffee house to drink a cup with my news paper" I say with a forced smile, that hides the shivers underneath.

wow, I ma shaken?

I mentally slap my self out of it.

"well, where is it" she says, confused I ask " wheres what?" "the news paper" I pause for a second to take in what she said, what should I say, "well my coffee isn't here yet so, you know"

wow, that was impressive, my composer is officially back on !

"do you mind if I join you" she said so gently, I glared at her, " sure , sure " I quickly replied.

pulling a seat for her..

we talked..

then walked..

then talked some more

in this idle Sunday , in this ungodly Sunday, I met the one whom with , I spent the rest of my life.

author note

( this story wasn't inspired by the movie breathless, the source of the picture, I have never seen it, that picture inspired me, so I wrote it)