It’s Wednesday afternoon, it’s not rainy, and I’m not feeling poetic.
But I’ll still write, vent, press some buttons and watch words appear on the screen.
Someone better appreciate it.
I called you yesterday afternoon, and you didn't pick up, no surprising me.
What do you mean you were busy? Don’t say that, it reminds me of him.
And don’t accuse me of anything, I know I’m overreacting, get out of my head, don’t analyse me.
Go ahead and buy us a cup of tea, then sit, I like the comfort of holding someone’s hand when they are talking to me.
There’s a long night ahead of me, I’ll sip my tea slowly, secretly wishing for coffee, I want to be one of those people having their nerves tick, inside a cafe away from the rain in a movie.
When you’re gone, I’ll still be me, writing on a computer screen, so I can quickly capture everything.
Things like, happiness, simplicity. And then the pain and suffering, everyone who knows me knows I appreciate their beauty.
The mass of them, condensed into a solid thing, because life is too heavy, and time is too thick.
Time? I know all about it, invented concept, technically imaginary.
You presence is just fine, I can tolerate it; I might even enjoy it, a nod or two to your self-proclaimed purity.
Enough of me being pretentious, real life is calling me. Either way, your absence should not bother me.