In the clustered hustle of an early day,
I stare along the Bächle
Surrounded by cobblestones,
Whilst culture seeps through every corner.

I inhale the sweet aroma
As steam reaches tip of my lips,
Bitterness of morning waking my heavy lids.
As I sit in my quaint kaffeetisch

Caramel shaded rings
Stained in designated placements
Of each rich artistic license
Painted on the canvas of my tisch.

Another sip,
Enveloping me in a warm hug
Of the salubrious morning air
Swirling the foamy cream at my quaint kaffeetisch.

Filled with stories of each decorated ring
The discovery of literary gold,
A rendezvous for star-crossed lovers,
Or a nest for contemplation and thought.

Apparitions visit me
Whispering their tales
While I watch the city waken
All recorded on my quaint kaffeetisch.

Another sip,
My quaint kaffetisch.

Note: This is only the first part. I am hoping to expand upon this

Clichés consume the essence of society’s perceptions on social principles. The most common cliché would label itself as love. The idea of love has been a universal thought, yet can never be fully defined in a clear definition. This is because love is a perception. Modern day society can say that love is a mere conviction that people create to close a hole of loneliness provided in every human being’s soul. The instinct to not be alone consumes humanity’s wish to find love. What is the pitfall of this universal desire? Look at the younger generation of today. Love is perceived as a mere notion of mutual liking for one another. In a matter of days, two people can declare their love to each other. Repercussions of the repetitive and meaningless use of the powerful phrase, “I love you”, are that these three definitive words lose the original notion of love, diminishing the value of the words.

            Literature, films, and culture have affected the use of the words “love”. The disappointment provided in watching society fall through the cracks within commitment, loyalty, and integrity while still being able to say “I love you” inhibits a lie that comes with these words. In my own viewpoint, the reason that so many people divorce and go through relationships faster than the remaining life of flowers in a vase, roots from the issue of the misuse in its magnanimous power that numbers of society fail to understand. We see old couples walk through the street, being with that one person for decades on end, and still just as much in love. Why would they last so long, when the lifespan of a modern relationship gets praise for lasting a week, a month, or a year? The clarifying realization sparks: they used the term love differently.

The moment
When you would
Give anything to be able
To cry again.

Heaving,
The mask glued on your face
Pasted on so tight, so well
That you cannot take it off.

Writhing,
The vegetation of happiness
Slowly rotting because
There are no tears to water it.

Weakening,
The fragile façade
Trembling against the edge
Of the will left in your teetering frame.

Breaking,
The painted glass
Covering the impurities,
Uncovering the bare, naked shards.

Release.

My throat traitorously closes up as I process the facts. Nothing will be the same. Every situation between you and I, will always weigh a heavy memory in remembrance of the pain. The twinge in your eye, the inability to make eye contact, and the constant fear looming over our heads like a treacherous storm ready to strike. The least thing I want is to relapse into the abyss that drowned me because of you. You were supposed to be my rope that kept me afloat in the sea, but you simply let go. You cut me off because it was too hard to string me along anymore. So I drowned.

I drowned and I drowned. Suffocating me in the airless water, chilling me from the betrayal I witnessed. Windswept, bobbing in and out of the water, the remaining part of me washed ashore.

Now, I see you again, so relieved as if nothing happened. Seeming like you never let go, I smiled back despite the heavy, wet clothes of my recollections clinging onto my skin. And for a day or two I attempt to forget the abandoning I suffered. But I finally look into his eyes, and my throat traitorously closes up as I process the facts. Nothing will be the same. You were going to leave once again, leaving me on this lonely island, haunted by the shallow memories of hope I held onto. The sanity within me withering each time I remember the pain.

I wished to send a message in a bottle, begging the heavens that it would reach you. Yet, the fear held me back. So I wandered.

I assure you, I’ll know where I’m going at some point along the way.
Wandering beside the trickling water as my guide
While teetering on the edge of the sidewalk
Discovering my city.

I admit I’m lost
It wouldn’t be a first,
But I’m content within the antiquity
Melted with novelty coating the evening scenery.

I may seem lost,
But I’ve found my way
Building a bridge to a home
I had been missing this whole time.

A piece of myself left behind,
Is it possible to miss
What I never really had?
I am more lost than when I began.

I assure you, I’ll know where I’m going at some point along the way.

Why did you leave? You gave me so many empty promises! So many misleading hopes have shattered the core of my being. What right do you have to have such a toll on my soul? What divine right do you, a most heartbreaking apparition, have to reap my mind throughout my days of existence? I know you once cared, but you never stretched your heart enough to fit me into your life when I accommodated a lavish suite for your presence within mine. So I ask again, what right do you have to belligerently beat at my soul to the point where it hurts to breathe, to think, to continue living as I once did? Am I so pathetic as to fall into your whimsical dance of “he loves me, he loves me not”? My worn out essence lies limp, but I feel a need to batter myself with these questions repeatedly as punishment for trusting too fast. The self-loathing stings the skin of my remorse, but soothes the reminder that you were real… that you must have loved me once.

Every day I have a visitor. She hovers by my window to rest on my sill and chirp a tune. I receive an orchestrated cluster of notes sashaying in my ears from little bird blue. Yet, her song is hollow, missing a harmony to her melody that was my personal ambrosia dripping into my soul with its smooth nectar. And sitting next to little bird blue, her vibrant feathers brighter than the rest, I always notice her wavering at the bridge of her song. I begin to ask “What’s wrong little bi—”, but she flies off, avoiding the subject with me.

Oh dear Konstantin,
Your troubles are not worth worrying.
All will be put to rest
Give it due time.

My dear Konstantin,
Do you quarrel with the truth?
Pleading with the forsaken
To accept what cannot be…

Do not fear Konstantin
Unrequited emotions
Will only batter your soul,
So walk briskly and move on.