It was middle of December,
the sun is in ordinary scent
yet no rooms for love
for the brothels are closed
because of the incalescent day.
The same day of december,
in the height of lines of flight,
in the medial of fervent crowd
you were there, standing. Out of, perhaps,
one billion virtual populace.
Logging in and checking out
their deafening selves
into virtual bogeys.
Highnoon,
grabbing a newspaper,
reading an article
on how Thais perform
a new people power
against an ebbing democracy.
Will these million heads
find their worths
out of verisimilitude idea
of a perfect governance
or should I say,
like a lady I’m rummaging
comparable to throe of irony?
The same evening,
children singing Christmas canticles;
the very way Dickens wrote about it
as parakeets sung the organic hymns
akin to tatterdemalions begging
for the plain December eve.
You might be there. Standing still.
No inklings of moving or whatsoever,
waiting for someone (definitely not me)
writing for someone (million lightyears away)
in the Venzi softbound notebook
as if a prayer paralipomenon
in the middle of December night.
When I finally got there,
during the midday December skies
you simply vanished.
I asked those bystanders
about your presence,
they cussed destiny
and expectedly shrugged
their tatooed shoulders
as a sign of you,
leaving no vestige.
Echoing Neruda penultimately,
“…and these the last verses I write for her.”