I stand on the cure and look up at the windows I used to
imagine seeing her face behind, an illusion back then, when she had better
things to do, more so now that she has gone – not too far, yet far enough,
mingling with other people after having abandoned the old crowd here, these
windows look out on a crowded city, on the skyline of a sleepless city, and I
wonder what it is she really sees when she looks out, not just from this window
but also from the window above the church year where she perches often like a
bird, smoke billowing from her lips. What vision does she have, if not religious,
then something equally profound, a sense of fate, the anticipation of greatness,
she could not achieve here, behind this window, despite the reflection of the skyline
in the glass.
I stand on the curb where I feel the emptiness flow over me
as if a breeze, sweet scent of the river lost with the approach of winter, and
I wonder, will I need to wait for spring to smell such sweetness again.
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