He wakes
up at four in the afternoon, hoping for rain.
His eyes
to the curtains, bruised, pretending they’re rain clouds, convincing him it’s
going to fall soon. But they don’t, even when he’s ready to drown and concede
to other than his own thoughts, making his bed, begging for him to stay. And so,
he closes his eyes once more and submits himself to the petrichor in his
sheets.
It’s
raining.
He
pretends the flashbacks rushing in were pictures in slideshows at two frames
per second, in a collage form, too, but at low resolution. He remembers them very
well; pictures tainted turning semi sepia, churning in, but not fleeting. He
believes he remembers what it feels like at the actual scenario: muted
dialogues and candid laughter they can’t do anymore. He replays them over and
over again, more than he did when he rehearsed them. He could have fixed his
fringe to a man bun he liked best, he
thought. Or could have worn the blue coat he believes to be his Sunday best. He
wonders how it would’ve gone if he practiced the dialogue more and more until
it’s the only thing he could repeat.
Should have he used a
different script,
Should have he played the
part, he
always thought.
You see,
this is the guy you see at three A.M at a particular stop, half a cigar in his
hand, the other tucked in his coat that smell petrichor and cigarette musk and
terrible decisions. If you would look closer, he wears a different spec this
time that finally complements his eyes, lost in search for a face in the crowd.
He probably wears his usual trench coat and ripped jeans and a classic Chuck
Taylor laced with warnings telling him do
not stay and move on. His hair
messier than usual—his lips craving nicotine. This is his usual self—maybe it’s
his best—maybe he doesn’t care at all. Maybe he did, just not anymore. But for
sure, he’s not waiting for anyone anymore.
At home,
he turns to his laptop and tune in to some jazz he likes best, or Oh Wonder or
indie music he’s rarely heard, yet hits closest to home. He goes through the
night with cups of coffee after cups in attempt to pull his caffeine-fueled
words from his tongue, and if it fails him, nicotine
will save him, he always thought. It’s
his best friend, after all, the one you’re better off without, the one you can
die for, or at least at 3 A .M
when everyone’s busy chasing their dreams, or when too much is heavier than too
much, or when words mean more than they’ve ever meant.
He wakes
up at four in the afternoon, hoping for rain, when it’s midsummer. He hopes for
rain after rain and long for it after longing for it, wanting to know why he has
forgotten why he’s even hoping for one—he just does.
You see
this is the guy you see at three A.M at a particular stop, raindrops running down his cheeks, when there’s
no rain at all, yet it might have really rained indeed.
