The last time you were seen was when you were walking through a museum. A museum of thousand skeletons robed with skin and scars. No. It was the kitchen of a famous restaurant, rolling noodles on a shiny fork and flossing through the front teeth. No.
It was the grocery section of a huge store picking up stuff for your friend.
Last seen riding the subway, literally, straddling its metal pole, clutching your bags with one hand. You were wearing two pairs of socks unchanged in the last one week. You were wearing clothes that were drunk on the rain and some snow. This was how you travelled.
I was the mannequin in the storefront window you looked towards, truly stimulated by the lingerie design. Your eyes crinkled with a gooey thought of me. I was the tissue paper in your denim’s left pocket until that dog found it, sniffed it and tried to lick. I was the door knob you swirled twice. No. Thrice. There I could feel a heartbeat on your fingertip. I was the newly put up glass on the wooden window of the blue house. You walked past and I chased your feet for few steps and laid myself out rightly open. You looked busy on the phone and I looked lucky.
The crumbles of the sandwich you ate while smoking your not-so-favourite brand. The blank A4 paper jamming herself through the printer, afraid to talk to you. The beggar. Sat with a hat bumming for more minutes. When I collapsed at your feet, you continued with algebraic equations in your mind and refused to look at me. The third phone number printed over an advertisement, stuck on the white wall. The small dent on the railing fixed along the river Rhine. The solitary lamppost standing diagonally across the huge Christmas tree adorned with sparkling lights.
I was the bumblebee buzzing around your head with no agenda other than a good time. And you were last seen entering the airport, boarding your flight and flying in the night sky.
You find
