eventual.
Coffee. Lots of it. The black substance that sometimes seems to have qualities close to that of black magic. Quantities that aren't fathomable because they would surely send the winged and fluttering mind out of its prison of a skull. But instead, the mind stays fixed sometimes feeling stapled to walls of what anatomy will call correct. Your dirty feet at the bottom of the bed, just barely hanging off, as if an inch could have saved them all the trouble of the dangling. A cigarette in between your tattered fingers, slowly making its way to your cringing lips. That dry mouth that constantly repeats without even thinking for a moment that it may have said too much: "I want more of it all." And it wants more of you, too. The minuscule feeling of wanting to be in love, somewhere in the back of a scratched up brain, even when you think it completely fleeted. Beat up like the red shoes that never made it out of that dark childish corner in your closet, no use anymore, but too precious, their soles etched forever with forgotten footsteps you would die to retrace. Tied unwillingly to that lump of consciousness, like a small child in its fathers' grip wailing and wailing over again for its nurturing mother. The hunger for that love never ceases. It is something you learn, over the time and agony you allow its gnawing pain to inhabit your life. Every day, with alarming clockwork, a hand slowly creeps up behind you almost reaching your shoulder but never quite making the reassuring move. The feeling is so near to real but yet so many miles behind you in a world you're not too sure exists that it's almost as if the hand has no shadow or weight at all. A ghost of a mass of particles you may have just imagined. What could in more than a thousand very different ways happen, doesn't. And so it continues on. Waiting for that unbreakable moment to break and then watching it rupture into little pieces of what could be glass or could be velvet (you've forgotten the feel, or the difference), you find yourself with unbearable cuts stinging every square inch of your body and suddenly, you are bleeding to the core of what you once called your essence. Time has made you into a mannequin of change. With strong arms slowly facing front then back, legs making fast paced mechanical movements as they lead the way into a tunnel of eternal longing. Here is the bridge now: over it you walk with exuberant energy as if the other side could hold every secret your life is based on. But the bridge leads to more grass and noise, things that fail to make sense in the dead of the night when this pillow is the only thing holding your weary thoughts up.