A cup of black coffee, a cigarette—please give me a corner on this quiet night, so I can quietly listen to the sound of my heart breaking, and savor that solitude alone.
--Yi Feng
This is my desk. Two bottles sit on it, one white and full, the other black and gradually empty. I love black coffee, pure and deep, a light taste of bitterness followed by a lingering fragrance. Sometimes habits become dependencies, just like my fascination with the subtle bitterness of black coffee.
I love coffee, and I always buy two bottles, but I've never touched the white one. I think maybe it's sweet, who knows, maybe… Tonight, I follow the trajectory of a shooting star, thinking of you and me. I remember telling you, "I've borne so much hardship alone, I've saved the sweetness for you." The words still echo in my ears, but you are now as hazy as your drunken eyes tonight. Like a shooting star streaking across the sky, I never had time to make a wish.
I once told you, "If you leave, please forget me." But I always remember, in this quiet, still night. The cigarette between my fingers glowed and dimmed. I've lost count of how many years it's burned away. My stained nails, no matter how much I try to polish them, will never regain their former color. Just like in your play, I was merely a passerby; I remember your fleeting smile, but you won't remember that other passerby.
I haven't touched coffee in ages, and today when I opened the bottle, I found it all solidified. Suddenly, I realized it wasn't me crying; it's just a damp season. No one but myself has ever seen my vulnerability!
That's all for now.
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