Page 39 - Contrast2004

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I am watching him out of the corner of my eye. He is sitting at a
table alone. He has wild blond hair, wears a sweater, and what
looks like jeans. A napkin is his scribe and here I am with an
abundance of paper feeling obligated to offer him some,
because what if he runs out of space? What did he just write
down? I even shift my chair so that I could get a better
glance. I'm too scared to look over; he's watching me. I know.
He's wondering if I'm a writer; the same I thought about him.
Why does he come here? His eyes glow under the flames, an
innocence, the virginity of curiosity. What is he writing with? A
pen? He sits watching with his fingers pressed against his
mouth, waiting for the moment to come. It has been my dream
to meet a mystery poet like myself; to share my world with
somebody spiritually that infuses me when I burn incense; the
smell is so invigorating. Or his eyes that tell so much, yet keep

me wondering.

Bam! The music has started again. Maybe. Maybe.

W"Caatrsaomne. l"' acrylic. by Jessica I wonder if he still watches me.
-Kristina Cheek
'

The Awakening 37