i am waiting for my coffee
i am the old couple eating pastries
with their chairs turned towards the window
i am the wafting scent of musk and amber
i am the bright magenta trees lining route 240
blooming in april while it rains
i am the veiny hands i know nothing about
except that i wish they would touch me
i am gulping down the foam
tasting the bittersweet memories on my tongue
the ones that have yet to happen
i am remembering what it means to have teeth
to feel so different, so distant
but entirely the same

There are different reasons why you write.
You write because...
...you're happy?
you're sad?
you're delighted?
you're mourning?
keeping a secret?
But whichever reason you have,
you still write what's inside.
What other people can't see,
can't decipher beneath the words you speak,
can't understand the emotions flowing
through the sentences you can't speak out loud.
You write, pouring the feelings you can't let out,
you write. using the words you once thought can't explain what you feel.
You write, thinking that someone out there can finally discern what you're hiding inside.