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| Photo by Rishiraj Singh Parmar from Pexels |
In the center of town, people come and go.
Dim lights, busy crosswalks, a light breeze; all will accompany you when you leave.
A 31-story building on a major thoroughfare is not an exception; its doors are wide open for anyone to leave their full-of-thoughts mind there.
People are supposed to head back to their sheets, where the warmness for their exhausted souls exists, and the lobby's door may be the place for them to remove any worries.
But my worries didn't unpack themselves that night.
They were oblivious.
Spinning around my head, they were trying to remind me of what might happen, but they got into arguments with Happiness.
Does something beautiful always come up with unplanned tension?
If that Wednesday was spring, the petals would've been so confused about whether to bloom or wither.
They couldn't draw themselves from the mixed-up notion.
Like the number 1 bus that picked us up that night, all moved in a blur.
All at once.
Like the black watch on your wrist, all seems perfect in its place,
Until the petals have to encounter autumn.
Spring day hasn't come yet,
Neither has an answer to my longing journey.
But I knew the bright days were going to happen when you turned around and said,
"Do your feet hurt?"
I, who lied back on the partition glass, had nothing to do except lowered my gaze on the high heels I wore and said, "Not quite, though."
And you giggled like a little child being amused by something unnecessary.
And that made the petals bloom even it wasn't spring.
—16 December 2020.
