All the nights you don't show up

... she can feel the smell of dark air, while staring at nowhere. That's what her brown eyes are for.

It's been such a dark blue kind of lately.

Guess life's meaning for dark is deep and strong. Maybe there's some relevance in saying so.

So let the story begin:

it's the hair. It's the hair in the air. And her friend's confusion with ''a'' and ''h''. And you ask about a small market at a corner of a space shown in the news.

The night you don't show up she still sees your hands, with all the little detais. So many details, there are.

(I - me, myself - come into the scene to wonder how his mom made all that. Was it care, love or simply art?)

The steps are counted, the shake of hands becomes hugs which will eventually turn into goodbyes. And, yet it is winter, there are so many flowers across the path that's not hers. Her difficulty with commas in a foreign language reminds her of you. Now she knows it can be real. And nothing matters but what you mean when you say when you write.

The nights you don't show up are plain of you. They are created out of invented expressions. Of mistakes and learning. But not once forgetfulness.

The nights you don't show up she wastes dealing with her current boyfriend. They sure speak a different language yet they have the same mother tongue. She blinks because that helps time passing. If things are so simple, why is it that her confused brain takes her to a forest? This is going nowhere, you all know what I mean.

You can count the notebooks around her room, because there are so many. She writes out of the blue, she takes notes so she doesn't loose any aspect of life. She's so pissed off at her uncles being artists. And her mom was one as well. Oh, I guess you don't really choose what you ought to be.

The nights you don't show up have your constant smell, and she was the one who really-liked-it-the-most. These nights are like an empty street which leads to so many places. She could even choose. Nights out of you, if she could say it.

They are playful since you see all these people outside with their colorful clothes, despite of all things, despite of you not showing up at night. The nights you don't show up require so many walking and no moving. A stop by at a random bar she doesn't really care about. She's paying attention to the boring fence across the avenue.

The nights you don't show up speak with your voice, and call your name. I look to see nothing, but I know there has been. Nights like this bring with them all little presents from past. They end up making her write her friend, though she has no patience at the girlie drama from the East. She was certain they were supposed to be brave over there. Anyway.

The nights you don't show up keep the handwriting marked in her view. She sees all things because once in a while she feels with her heart. She googled map (isn't it right we can creat all and any verbs in English, which is good when you don't even know how to conjugate verbs in your own language - argh, those romance languages!) her last international spot. And was reminded of you. The coldness, the huge windows always closed which make her wonder why they exist in first place, heavy doors made out of woods, a dog or two or maybe one in every house, the weird roofs which aren't all the same at least, the architecture so different from one of her uncles', the hidden sun in the end of the street, no one outside, some forgotten trash cans, and of course trees with no leaves - all so gloomy and yet she likes it. How is it where you live???

The nights you don't show up you are still here.