Friday, January 27, 2017

1980s poems

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It has been more than a month since the very first conversation I had with the young girl I met, if you remember, that girl whom her hobby is staring at the sky and said that it was pitch black. The sky is pitch black, she said. I know, neither did I understand what she was saying.

Today I met her again, this time she wasn't looking at the sky but instead, papers. Well, book. Book consists of papers right? It was a copy of classic poems compilation in 1980s era she was holding tightly with her little pale hands. She really is a weird being, perhaps that's why nobody could keep up with her, I insist.

She put her book down and glanced at me. She waved, I startled. "Me?" there was no sound coming out of my mouth anyway, it was just me talking to myself.

"How are you, old friend?" She smiles the brightest smile I have ever seen in my whole life. But hey anyway, did she just say that we are friends?

Your smile stakes a claim
on my past.
I laugh and talk small
as if the tunnels
through our hearts
had never been connected,
as if I had no claim to stake
on any part of you.

"Grand. And you, friend?"

"I was kidding." I let out a chuckle. Nodding, telling her I knew what she means so that she doesn't have to worry about it. She laughed.

"Poems?" She nodded. "Isn't it boring?"

"It is," she paused as she flipped through the pages, "...for those who doesn't understand the meaning."

Silence filled the void between us. She didn't say anything, nor did I. "I don't know your name. I am Glove."

"I don't have a name. But you can call me Fox."

"So, both of us made a name of 'Foxglove'..."

"Poisonous?"

"I guess we are." I never understand her words.


Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction.

2 comments:

  1. Continued? I think this would be an interesting story. You make me curious. Hm. Haha.

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