Hints.

I.

She was a broken record.
Her voice went on and on in her head – and sometimes, out of her mouth too. She did not understand why being repetitive was deemed a bad thing.
People do not listen enough to each other, to begin with.
What if it was something important enough to save or change lives?
No, they must hear the buzz of her lips
Breaths from her diaphragm pushing out of her throat like caterpillars
metamorphosing into butterflies.

As softly as the dew dropping in the break of the morning,
They must have heard her mutter the words:

“I love you.”

II.

There I was, sitting in a small-town cafe, sipping from a cup of cold coffee.
Everyone Else was doing the same thing
Except her.

I caught her staring at Everyone Else.
To be fair, it was not difficult to have spotted her. There was an awkward, almost unnatural aura perpetuating from a small corner in the cafe,
A purplish dignity as small as she was.
She would stare at Everyone Else, her eyes unblinking, seemingly in search of something.
The moment Everyone Else returned her stares, she would look away, and never looked in the same direction again.

She repeated this with a few others, and so I waited for her to look at me.
I was going to beckon her over and ask her for reasons behind her intense, courageous stares which would, yet, withdraw as quickly as she was embarrassed when they were returned.
I was curious.

I waited, waited,
But she never did.
She picked up her bag, footed the bill, and simply walked out of the cafe.

I watched as her feet danced across the road
I watched each strand of her hair waltzing in the wind
I watched her lashes fluttering, seemingly satisfied with the direction she was heading in
And her small back disappeared behind the curves of walls.

When I came to, the barista was looking at me – calculating how much distance the light from my retina had traveled across space,
looking at the girl-now-gone.
I withdrew my gaze and retreated into my seat, embarrassed.

Then it came, a revelation as quick as light.
She must have been wanting in meaning, her brown eyes searching for a sign
Sizing up any opportunity to make a difference
Just like Everyone Else did
The barista too,
And I.

III.

Breadcrumbs
Scattered on the ground

Cluttered, strewn
Or an organised mess

Who would have thought that something so negligible, unnecessarily abundant and
Meaningless
Could lead Hansel and Gretel
home.

IV.

She knows that we already know
Her words like deja-vus
Stares like various open-ended tunnels into our complex brains – or hearts, whichever we use to process information
Lips spewing breadcrumbs from her sandwich on purpose

She just likes repeating,
Just in case.

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3 thoughts on “Hints.

    1. Thank you, Hector.

      I appreciate your feedback on this post, as this is my first sober post haha. I hope the title fits; it is difficult to make meaning and connection between the things we write, isn’t it?(:

      1. I understand not making meaning since our minds are complicated creation and every time we read something again and again we find new meaning. Connection is a passing moment that sparks that creativity and happens once. At least that is the way I see it. :)

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