Unspoken Stories
About ten of us in a circle.
Floor smelled like wood and aftershave.
The host resembled a vintage tapestry
deers, dogs, hunters, and wildflowers,
gracefully adjusted to human nature
by means of intellectual reproduction
of a serene scene, gruesome in reality.
“There’s no right or wrong way of doing this.”
N6, intense red buttoned sweater,
paired with a tiny, fetishistic nose
and a flair for repeating the same thing.
Dumbstruck, you couldn’t help but stare
at those nostrils and mechanical mouth.
“She died, but they moved on so quickly.”
N9, black outfit, shoes, hair and eyes
high eyebrows, authoritative demeanor,
years of experiences and pupil teaching.
A French woman in all her countdown glory.
I watched true love waltzing in her memories.
“Why should I share my pain with strangers?”
N7, orange blouse with patterned flowers,
a shy, skinny body sat quiet like a shadow.
Trembling voice suited for candlelit parties,
under the sheets with a handy carpenter,
or sentimental fiction with hot heroes.
“I forgot how to live since Covid hit.”
N10, tweed pants squared with white lines.
A pair of round glasses, ongoing yawning.
Natural, no evidence of flaws or makeup.
We spoke about the art of interaction.
She looked at me, smiling knowingly.
“Close friends can’t see I’ve changed.”
I meditated on the flickering neon lights
with a sense of wonder and wrong_fulness.
I hadn’t had time to chew my food earlier,
nor the prospect of spontaneous confessions.
Free willed, mesmerized by words and cries.
“What a gift to see someone for the very first time.”
