Waiting for her on a Sunday
Look out the window. Life drizzles, everywhere, in tiny white dreamlets of snow. And then falls asleep on the grass, on the branches, on the shiny asphalt. Forget the cars whooshing past. They do not exist. Switch off your cellphone. You have nothing to finish. Take it slow.
Notice the firefly at the tip of your cigarette. See how it rests sadly on the groove in the ashtray, living its journey to the ashes. Follow the grey wisp that rises from it, rises and diffuses. Feel how it lives on, unseen, in the café nostalgia. Do not worry about her, she will come. Relish the wait, for it will not last. Caress the present, and take it slow.
Turn off the radio. Believe, that nothing happens. News is a form of fiction, anyway. Listen to their laughter. Listen hard. You will hear the Sunday dew dripping. And you will hear the stars that fell yesterday night when you were not looking. Look, so you don’t miss. Take it slow.
Do not think of what you have or what you do not have. Do not pine for what you have not done. You are not answerable to anyone, you are not responsible for anyone. You are the king of the universe. Feel the world, the rain, the snow, the mountains, the asphalt, the café, and the lingering music inside take a bow to you. Do not think of her. Do not think. Thinking is still an act. Just be. Be what you long ago promised to yourself to be. To get into your own skin, you have to take it slow.
Listen to the wafting music that someone must be playing somewhere. Don’t try to figure who, where, or what instrument. Just trust it, and let it take you with it. You can fly. You have a right to. You are too vast for these walls. Do not think of who you leave behind. Let your fairytales come alive. Don’t resist them. Let your guards down, little by sweet little. Take it slow.
Do not be afraid. Let the others in the café look. They will not know. It is only a Sunday, and you owe it to yourself to take it slow. There will be men coming in, and there will be men that will go. There will be those behind the counter that will remain, with their hurried handling of orders, with their quips, smirks and notions. They will want to talk to you, and you, the king of the cosmos, will stutter. But when their time comes, even they will go. So, do not care, and take it slow.
She too probably will have left. Thank her, and let her go. Just take it slow.