Coffeehouse Blues

Most people drown their sorrows in a bar at the mercy of a bartender. But here I am in the corner of a Starbucks, silently watching young girls laugh and aspiring writers type away in their own worlds. This is my fourth black coffee, the bitter taste barely registering on my burnt tongue. I'm not sad. I'm not angry. I don't feel much at all. The colors in this shop are turning gray in my eyes. I imagine him here with me, drinking an iced coffee and whispering silly stories about the people in the shop. But I only see him in my dreams, and now I don't even have that. Because it isn't sleeping that I fear; it's waking up with nothing to look forward to.

I'm afraid of the nothingness I've become.