Scribblings

On the long mud path to high mountains, An old man was painting on scrap. Grey hair and wrinkles, His sweat and bright blue paint dripped to the ground. There was only the sound of the wind And the strokes of an old wooden brush. Seeing my curious gaze  He said, "This is for when I come again."                                 

On the last page of that empty notebook,  only one word was written, "I".  Handbook of a man who called himself a poet. But below, there was a footnote. "If my words were my poetry... If my love was my poetry... If my silence could be my poetry..." I closed that book. He was not a poet,   He was the poem. 

He shouts, laughs and gives orders, On the third floor of this tall building. What an energetic man! People wonder. On the other day, I met him inside the lift. Just two of us. "Are you real?" I asked him. "Means?"  He returned another question with a surprise. "I thought you were someone else," I said.

That road was almost empty but for a few robins. Dry yellow leaves were dancing in the wind. I watched her walking from the other side. Curly hair and dark brown eyes. Have we met before? I wondered. She looked at me with a gentle smile. "You asked me the same when we met years before."

The rain that didn’t make me drenched, The wind that didn’t blow away my thoughts, The love that I lost, The years that I existed, but didn't live, The smiles that I began to distrust, Will I ever remember them?