I stand in the centre of a muddied garden, the winter is firmly upon us. I roll up the sleeves of my heavily patterned cotton jumper and scruff my hair a little to imitate some sort of style that does not have a name. She hasn’t said my name yet. The tears of desperation are still damp on my cheek, the memory of her scent is a humble memory. The vanilla essence dashed with pineapple and mango flavours made my nose search long and hard for the body behind such a fragrance. I only caught a glimpse of her smile as he eyes bore into the deepest part of my skull. The pain of such an invasion left me writhing, clenching my fists hoping she would grab hold of my hand and lead me to the hills. She walked away without saying goodbye which is apt seeing as she never said hello in a literal sense. Every part of me believed she did, every sense that I was taught as a child made me think that she had whispered into my ear to follow her but I couldn’t, not at that moment. So as my shoes soak in the mud that has been fermenting for weeks and as the winter expands to become more than just a season in a news report, I wait. I’ll be waiting for a long time. Fate doesn’t believe in empathy, nor sympathy. The wind begins to chill my neck and the bumps begin to rise as I look out past the fence of my front yard. A boy passes with his mother, laughing as he grips onto her hand. He smiles at me and i manage one back. Maybe she smiled too because she was being polite. I turn away from the road, walk up the blue stone steps and wipe my feet as I open the door. A thought strikes me as I place my keys in the drawer, ‘She’s not thinking about you right now so why waste your time thinking about her?’ I don’t answer the imaginary question that lingers in my subconscious. I can’t answer it right now anyway, I’m too busy thinking about her.
Waiting on someone I haven’t met yet.