You'd always sit in the very end,
not the cliche type of girl who would
stuff her nose inside a dusty book,
pretending to be shy so someone
would talk to her.
Not that I could talk to you.
But you'd sip your coffee, place your
feet at the edge of the window, lean
back and just take pictures of the ceilings
with your old camera, and as soon as
you got tired, you'd take another sip,
a sip of cold coffee.
I always wondered why you even
liked coffee in the first place,
with it being bitter and absolutely
disgusting.
But you were just another mystery
ready to be solved.
And when you miserably failed to
complete a painting of the window
with watercolors, a chuckle escaped
from my lips.
I remember how your eyes darted
up and met mine, scared and lonely,
and all I could think of was to
say I'm sorry.
Yet I can't, that's the problem.
I can't.
