The days after she left brought me into another deep depression. The day after the showing, it started to pour and didn’t let up for about three weeks. Some days weren’t as bad as others, but most had the majority of the day in grim tears. This wasn’t the first time this happened; the last time she left for a few weeks, rain also poured almost constantly.

I still made my way to Stardust on my bicycle almost every day, whether pouring or not. My stays ended sooner and sooner; the muse I counted on did not grace me with beauty. Plus, another problem sprouted: most of the people that frequent it know who I am. If I try to be productive, a million people try to talk with me. The majority of these conversations left me thinking almost everyone has a closed mind that goes there. The one person I really want to talk to is the one that disappears/doesn’t bother me. I’m hoping it’s somehow because she sees that I’m doing something.

It does feel like she stands near me for quite a while and just doesn’t say anything, but that could be because I stand next to the trash can/where all the sugar/half and half/other drink stuff is. But, I know it really can’t take that long to throw stuff away. When she does this, it seems I’m too scared to even look at her for fear of giving myself completely and scaring her off.

Now, I’m not saying that there’s nobody with whom I like to have conversations. It’s just the ones that I don’t are the ones that visit most frequently and bother me the most. I do like to talk to one of the baristas, Jen, because she’s such a sweetheart. I wish there were more people like her in this world, it would be a much better place.

I started going less and less to the point of only going on Wednesdays, hoping she somehow returned, and Thursdays for the ‘poetry’ slam. Oh, how I longed for the return of her. The weeks passed by without productiveness or any happy thoughts. This on top of a lack of sleep left me zombified, disgusted, lovesick, and almost hopeless. She could have been back sooner than I saw her, which I know she was at least the Saturday of the week before I saw her. (Stalker, remember)

That Wednesday, my limbs wouldn’t listen, my mind was frail and my heart fragile. I tried my best to write a poem or two, to read a chapter or two of Jane Eyre. My brain would just not cooperate as it wasn’t the last month. I’ve been a bad person, reader, I didn’t go out on one job search while she was out of town. I didn’t leave much at all and still haven’t. It’s hard enough to wake up or sleep.

I didn’t look up, but I could feel as she came through the door. When I did, I noticed that the memory of her could never quite match her beauty. Something about her settles me, but when she stood next to me for a minute or so I had a panic attack. The muse grabbed my hands and made me write. The poem turned out horrible, but the shock sort of resurrected me. I really should have said something; but, when do I do that? Still in a panic attack, I waited for her to leave for me to do so and went home.