I was waiting for an inspiration, to talk to you,

To know you again, then you came in a hazy, mountain, frenzied, tiring, midnight, funny, alcohol, cold, christmas, bureaucratic, hotel room,

Like a millennial genie in a bottle, you have glitches from foot to navel,

You’ve grown fat. You’ve aged. You’re different. You’re alive. You’re hair. You’re beautiful.

Indeed you are an image of fancy. A glorious phantasm.

You struck a conversation. How long has it been? Your finger on my hands. I couldn’t believe it.

You’re big eyes, very big eyes, shyly looking away. So how are you? Dealing with crime? With national issues? With people? With politics?

Me? I’ve become political. I might have become the thing I hate. I hate politics.

We never talked about politics.

Now we ‘re in the system.

This system.

Like any other system.

Gestures, manner of speaking, their laughter, their demeanor are all obscure.

But after being with them for quite some time, I can now imagine myself running for office someday.

Of course, this is just an imagination. I can visualize it but I hope not to do it.

I am sure you’ve seen far more worse.

It has probably toughened you up.

You used to be so naïve and fragile.

Now you’re all dolled up and ready to take on the world.

Oh how I miss you.

How terribly I miss you.

Just talking to you.

All night. All morning. All afternoon.

We talked about coffee.

We talked about life.

We talked about you and me.

To love is to burn, to be on fire – Jane Austen


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