Night. Suburban household. Narrow spiral staircase to her room:
The mind has too many questions.
But I started with: “May I see your books?” – it was an excuse.
Dusty Fitzgeralds on this shelf. A Chinese poet here
On top of that, rusty trophies forgotten with time
On the other side of the room, her musical instrulovers;
A 1980s looking machine
she corrected me and said it was a DVD player.
I listened to her playing her guitar as I skimmed through her books
She then asked me if I can reach the misplaced tile of her ceiling—
It was the kind you see in horror films where a heinous creature
Would pop out to surprise or kill you.
I placed it with trembling hands and throbbing heart.
She never asked me to sit— there were no chairs
So I roamed around looking at photos posted in the wall.
A calendar dated 2011; a postcard from a past lover
Comic strips in one side
Her room was beautiful and lonely.
She showed me an Ayn Rand and she told me she read it.
She looked proud about it. Reading Ayn Rand to her is easier than
Reading Woolf’s Mrs. Dollaway. It made sense.
We sat on the floor, not so far from each other.
She also showed me her artworks. They were beautiful.
I asked for one entitled “Practice” because I want to be reminded of this:
A musician who writes and paint—
She can be a fan of The Big Bang Theory and still love Mishima.
She was a renaissance woman.
I asked her what time it is, she said nine.
So I got up and said it was time to go— nobody stays forever in one place
Eyes of a lost child, imperfect woman
She gave me a triangular box of candies to eat in my way home;
Or maybe to remind me of her and this night in her room.
I held it tightly in my hands as I watch the bus travel in a moonless April.