On the Bench

Someday I will be waiting for you on a bench. I will be watching hummingbirds flying all around as my thoughts. Going in different directions trying to find nectar in newborn flowers. New people are my flowers, their words my nectar. You would get there, sit beside me and share my silence; you would listen with me the stroke of a dozen wings and heartbeat on backbeat. I would put my hand on the armrest and wait for one of the birdies to stop, to sit on my arm and rest. But just as our stream of consciousness, they cannot stop upon one single place for too long, cannot live on one single nectar. You would stand and walk in front of me. One, two, three times, but I would be so distracted by the hummingbirds and the nectar they found to not notice you. And just as a ghost you would lose more and more your consistency. The less I see you, the less you are real. You would scream to get my attention. My mind is already somewhere else.

Where the bird are blue and the sky is grey and everything has a golden shade. There is no reason for us to stay on that bench.

I would stand. I would go. The sound of the wing stroke more and more feeble, faint, and the nectar as far as the flower could be. Only then I would realize why I’ve been on that bench.

A quick look around. I wouldn’t see you. Was it just a dream? You have always been a ghost.

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