Now and then, when I sit in this rustic café, I'd convince myself that she'd walk past and I'd see a glimpse of her through the window once again. And I remember that moment so perfectly, like watching a movie for the thousandth time and knowing each scene down to it's most miniscule of details.
Like how her frizzy curls had caught tiny snowflakes and her deep breaths turned into vapor. And as she'd come to a slow halt, she'd move to the side of the sidewalk and close her eyes and find some peace from the hustle and bustle around her. And she'd smile to herself, contented with the surrounding, frantic chaos as if it didn't bother her at all. She'd rub her hands together, creating friction on the surface of her mittens and pull at her scarf to readjust its fit.
And I know I should've looked away, but seconds are only seconds and the scene is so pleasant and breath taking that I take in whatever this reality gives to me. Until, she begins to walk again, her footsteps traveling further down the street and my eyes give in and her outline disappears into the frenzy of people.
End scene, I thought. Because that was the first and last time that I ever saw her. And like the hopeful sucker that I am, I'd convince myself that maybe she'd walk past and I'd see a glimpse of her again.
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Polaroids Lost in Time
PoesíaOriginal poems, short stories and lost polaroids. Some sad and others bittersweet.
