Tomorrow I will go on like yesterday, you know ―
Same 'ol waking up, hot bath then smear peach-pink on each eyelid.
It's not an emergency,
but that Portuguese song about the serene farm
–a happy place―
reminds me of you.
Today I stirred my tea for longer,
lost in thought,
lost in repercussion,
lost.
It's not an emergency,
but I dreamt of us in a balcony at night;
sparkling eyes and wine.
I know I'm not extraordinary.
I was made to collect seashells in silence at windy seashores;
woman making boats of paper napkins at cafés and throwing it away.
It's not an emergency,
but were you looking for extraordinariness?
Did you find it in yourself?
A sad poem and glistening eyes in the dark ―
My last memory of you is from years ago.
We left this story where it was, maybe finished it,
I'm never sure.
It's not an emergency,
but I think we will meet again somewhere.
And midst champagne flutes and people's side profiles,
I will recognize you.