Hospitality

Someone is looking for me, waiting for me. I must say, I am quite flattered. Most of them avoid me, run away from me, or even try to cheat me. Some aren’t patient enough to wait for my attention, so they do my job for me. However, it is rare that I am welcomed—not feared or rushed. I think that she is scared, but not of me this time. She is scared of the future, the past, and the present. Such a pity that such a sculpted brain, a poetic heart, and a tinting soul must lack its clay, its pen, and its paint. When I’m not there, she shifts her gaze around the room like she’s dropped her wallet on the way. Her heart pounds like a drum and her hands shake like strings on a violin. Only when I’m beside her does silence engulf the room. Only then there is stillness. This is why she waits for me. She wants to be beside me forever, to hold “delete” and watch as the white emptiness leaves no more room for stanzas, verses, or paragraphs.