Ode to

The evening light shines through the foyer, a shadow cast across the man sitting on the steps. His eyes are closed, his hands clasped tight, veins stretched and skin worn out. I want to ask him, “How do you feel now? My hands are cold and punctuated with frost bites. I want somebody to warm them, heal the cuts, and give them life because it scares me how absurdly cold they can be (and it’s only September).” But my voice falters, weakens, and becomes as lifeless as the fingers turned blue. He doesn’t look at me. He never looks at me. I imagine that we are one in the grass, the golden rays falling upon us. I imagine that we are in love with love, with wind chimes that move the city. Fierce hearts. The littlest things that sparkle and blossom into clouds of laughing cupids. But this is not to be. “No thanks, no more, no love. I’m done, I’ve had enough. You’re going away with her and I wish I was...alright, be on your way” (Ode to, Rachel Yamagata). Opposite him, there is a woman and her child. She sees her child with a funny eye, which says, “Are you really my baby? You come from my womb but you seem so far away from me.” The child does not hear her mother’s cries. She is looking up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with her fingers. There is no past for the forgetful. No present, no future, if there is no past. How can he remain so still, so unmoving, or is this also part of my imagination? This illusion of failure, only because I dreamt of success? This nonsense called love – I never believed in it – and therefore wanted to believe in it so that I could doubt it when I finally did trust it? A man walks across the foyer. He wears blue, and carries a bucket of paint. He stops mid-way, a gloomy silence. Has he forgotten where he comes from and where his destination is? Clocks stop for the man deep in thought. I hear the sound of an aeroplane. I see the engine smoke spiral downwards. He starts again, this time in rapid paces. Dust descends, he says, “This too shall pass.”