I don’t like this place. I don’t like these people. But it seemed like the thing to do. The thing to do, to go back to normal. But what’s normal, now that you follow me around. What’s the use in normal, if it means I can’t have you around? So I’ll head to the exit and go home, if it means you’ll go home with me. I’ll be un-normal. I’ll be abnormal, if you never let go. If it means the coffee will get cold, the ice will never melt and the A/C will be switched off permanently, I will take it all... If you stay with me. If you stay on this side.
I could always read you like a book. And now I just see right through you. I keep my eyes locked on where your heart used to be. And I wonder does it still beat for me, skip time and rush fast. Then I look up at your deep chilling eyes, down to your warm smile and realise that if you still had it; it would still be on your sleeve for me to read. I wonder what mine would read, now that your gone...but you’re not gone. But I don’t care. Because I would rather have your cold hand to disappear into, than somebody elses warm hand to hold hands with.
-Please Check Out the resources because they were partly inspired, especially my initial inspiration Peace by BowtiesAreCool-
"It's kind of cold in here..." he mumbled before drifting.
She whipsered, "But it's warm here in my arms."
"Damn-my coffee went cold." he mumbled before pulling another drag.
She whipsered, "But its warm here in my arms."
I can't pick as usual but I was inspired by the song Coffee by Copeland while I came up with this tiny story. I pictured this drawing happening in one of those old fashioned NYC coffee shop that are open all night and let you linger. What a good place for ghosts to hang out right? Leave a comment picking which one like best f you please :)
inspired by courtneywirthit's Coffee Went Cold
He sat quietly, staring at his coffee. Writer's block.
He hadn't been able to write anything since she...since she had gone. As soon as her eyes fluttered shut for the last time, he knew that the words would not come anymore. He couldn't speak at her funeral, for he had no words left to say. No words could describe the unbearable pain and heartbreak that he felt.
He had started smoking again. She had always hated it when he did, threatening that one day she would drop dead of second-hand smoke and he'd be the reason why. So he had quit. But now, there was no one to stop him from lighting up every now and then. So he did.
His espresso slowly grew cold, the last of the steam dissipating into the smoggy city atmosphere. The pages of his notebook fluttered in the breeze, begging to be covered in his messy scrawl. But the words would not come.
Then, he felt a cold, pale hand on his head, messing up his carefully combed and parted hair. Another hand came to rest on his arm, and he knew. It was her. He didn't dare look for her, for fear that she might disappear and leave him for good.
A sense of peace and calm swept over him and he felt a tremendous weight lift from his shoulders. His brain began to speak to him, throwing new ideas at him, left and right.
He reached for his notebook impulsively, eager to put his pen to paper. She had helped him to find his words.
I have been wanted to REmix this great illustration (a tiny story in its own right) for ages! I apologise to my fellow countrymen for the Americani'z'ed spelling however I didn't want something as trivial as spelling to stand out over the image : )
A small request while you are here, for the purposes of REmixing please upload as high res as you can images and remove any watermarks. Saves going in an photoshopping it out and helps create a cleaner image : ) Ta!