Vagabond
don't look back; you can never look back
He stares at the blank page. His mind is as empty as the piece of paper in his hand. The sound of crickets fills the room as he mindlessly stares through the open screen door. He’s been meaning to mow that lawn for ages. But the lawn is so insignificant right now. The crickets are restless, it’s almost annoying. He reckons, if he closes the door, he wouldn’t hear them anymore. Maybe that would be the best. Just close the door and hear nothing.
Close the heart to feel nothing.
Sometimes he sits in the same chair for hours, lights a cigarette and leave it in the ashtray to burn away. He is leaving tomorrow. Doesn’t know where, just somewhere far from here.
Sometimes he can’t think of anything, can’t feel anything; he just stares through the door, looking far away with his mind blank. He just hears the crickets.
Sometimes he sees her eyes. Sees her walking from the tall grass towards him, lays her head on his shoulder like she used to; he can almost remember what her perfume smells and then everything hits him at the same time.
The cars pass at high speed, raging drivers press the horn harder and harder. The engines of the running motors and the coffee maker buzzing snap him out. He is back on the road to some city, a country with no name. He shakes his head to wake up. But she is still there. And her green eyes. She is in his mind, and it hurts because when he reaches there is nothing to hold to.
When he smiles it is genuine; he tends to forget her easily. But when he is alone, when he hears crickets, he knows she will be there.
And sometimes, the sounds of the raging engine motors drown the crickets. When his whole body shakes from the bad tires and worse concrete roads, he looks through the window, his reflection looking back at him, “fuck it Tyson, get your shit together.”
Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow he will forget her.
Close the heart to feel nothing.
Sometimes he sits in the same chair for hours, lights a cigarette and leave it in the ashtray to burn away. He is leaving tomorrow. Doesn’t know where, just somewhere far from here.
Sometimes he can’t think of anything, can’t feel anything; he just stares through the door, looking far away with his mind blank. He just hears the crickets.
Sometimes he sees her eyes. Sees her walking from the tall grass towards him, lays her head on his shoulder like she used to; he can almost remember what her perfume smells and then everything hits him at the same time.
The cars pass at high speed, raging drivers press the horn harder and harder. The engines of the running motors and the coffee maker buzzing snap him out. He is back on the road to some city, a country with no name. He shakes his head to wake up. But she is still there. And her green eyes. She is in his mind, and it hurts because when he reaches there is nothing to hold to.
When he smiles it is genuine; he tends to forget her easily. But when he is alone, when he hears crickets, he knows she will be there.
And sometimes, the sounds of the raging engine motors drown the crickets. When his whole body shakes from the bad tires and worse concrete roads, he looks through the window, his reflection looking back at him, “fuck it Tyson, get your shit together.”
Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow he will forget her.