Freehand

I need to give a warning to my own mind
as I sit here with a pen in restless hand
tapping, nodding, thinking, frantically worrying
what is coming up tastes like vomit but smells of smoke
it’s coming out on this notepad I stole
I remember stealing it
it was from the store where you had worked
I remember it being fucking cold
that kind of icy chill that makes your balls crawl up inside of you
that day was the second time I had seen you
the first; a week before I saw you order a latte from Starbucks
I was sitting by myself reading one of those pretentious papers
Our fucked up economy, some bitchy letter to the editor
but then there was that latte
I had never tried one before
after you left, blowing over the lid, I walked to the counter
I ordered my first of many lattes that day
I’m not sure if I like the flavor or just the image
now I’m back in the store when I stole this notepad
looking back I think it was fate
I didn’t want to write anything
I wasn’t looking for you
but there you were
standing in your work uniform
a blank expression
I knew I should have said something to you
I fumbled
I tucked my head in my shell
stole that notepad
ran the fuck out
I know that I’m being wordy and probably boring
but hear me out
all of this does have a point that in my own backward way I am reaching
that thing, that alien, that weird feeling I know you have all gotten
no, it’s not déjà vu, it’s something else, it’s something deeper
fate maybe or in some religions it might be called predetermined destination
that is what I’ve been feeling for the past two fucking weeks
ever since that damn newspaper and that nasty espresso wreck
it will not go away, it doesn’t matter how much I write
it will not go away, I’ve tried to forget but no fucking luck
I wouldn’t even be writing if whatever this is left well enough alone
but of course not
I had to see you a third time
stopped at the same intersection
I had a tugging feeling inside of me
I looked to the right and there you were
sitting in your pretentious help-me-save-the-god-damn-environment Toyota Prius
this time was different
this time I was able to smile
as that alien would have it, you looked back
You flipped me off
You fucking flipped me off
all this build up
this emotional ride that I’ve given myself
fueled by my own desire of mystery
I don’t want to call it love
I’m still not at a point where I believe in love
but there is something I thought I did believe in
that alien feeling
that destination you predetermined
with my notepad and your latte
this magical wet orgasm I dreamed up
You told it all to fuck off

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Jeremy Burrows is a clinical psychology graduate student. He currently lives in Chicago and spends his time studying and writing.