As the sunrise cracked the darkness of the night, I opened my eyes. I jumped out of bed, washed my face and got my coffee ready. I was thinking all the time, what should I get her? What should I tell her?
Smelling the coffee, I had my first sip. I drifted away in memories and thought about the storm, about the storm that carried her away. I thought about the words she wrote, thought about the stories she told. It was getting late, and I was getting nervous. I got ready to leave and start the day. Hour after hour, I was still thinking of her. Thinking about this day, and thinking about the very old days.
One day she said she loved me, one day she said, “Hold me.” Another day she said, “No one makes me feel the way you do.” One day she missed me; one day she met me and another day she just went away. She always said, “You are the one; you are the one that I can’t have; you are the one that I always need, that I always want.”
As the hours passed, my words started building up, building into the long story of missing her. I drifted into the book of loving her, drifted into the realm of her fantasy. I got her gifts ready. I got the book, got the roses, got all the words. I got the song; I got the photo and waited by the door. Something is not right. Something is surely out of the norm. Is it the same door? It looks old and worn. A spider web by the corner and thick dust on the threshold were the signs.
Not to worry. I carried on waiting, waiting by the door that never opened. Waiting by the door that was never there. I waited by the door that I always dreamed about. It’s stupid to say, stupid to write. It’s stupid to wait and stupid to escape. “Wake up, wake up!” they loudly said. “The train is moving and you were never invited to the party!”
Leave the roses to dry. Leave the book to tatter by the door. You were never invited to the birthday party.
Happy Birthday my birthday girl.
© Copyright 2016 Rashican. All rights reserved.
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