John
When I was young I saw John’s face. I could never take it out of my head.
I wake up, sometimes, and see him, standing right there; inside me. What does John mean when he says he will look me in the eye. I don’t have all the answers. I drag myself from bed and John doesn’t leave, sometimes for the full day.
Other days, of different nature, I never get to see John. Those days are fewer and farther between at summer. The heat of summer reminds of John; I met him then. The summer of a year too long ago to remember. Yes, I met him on summer; or, dare I say, didn’t.
That day in the plaza was sunny and the sky was a tone of blue I cannot forget nor describer. I felt the birds weird, and so the air and the ground. It all felt a bit too heavy. A bit too real, maybe. Then I saw his face, looking at me, then not. He seemed like a tourist, too. Just wandering through downtown.
— He might go to the cathedral — I thought.
He didn’t and instead took a sit near a group of birds on a stone bench. It was fun to see him there, surrounded by all those people, which in some paradoxical way, made him stand out the more he was hidden among them.
He fed some birds for some minutes and I didn’t stop looking at him, pretending, of course, I was looking other places.
Dear traveler John, meet me someday.
Then he started walking and so I followed him. I am grateful that he didn’t choose to walk down any untranslated street, I might have looked even more suspicious.
What was it that made me unable to stop looking at him? I ponder that sometimes, very deeply. His seems portrayed, in my view, some very great personal qualities; I didn’t need to corroborate that. I had no evidence of how he was, but I didn’t have to. His beautiful, childish eyes stood perfectly on his long, toned face.
I saw him, yes, but that doesn’t matter much, what made it special is that I saw myself with him and, even more importantly, I saw myself in him.
— What is it in your eyes — I said in silence while walking to the café he was going to.
I ordered an espresso and sat on the table furthest to the right, outside. He sat a few tables closer to the middle of the café, close to the entrance. I believe he ordered a cup of black coffee. Probably Brazilian.
I see John often, but he doesn’t see me at all.
I love John but he doesn’t know I exist, and if he does, I am, maybe, unnamed actor #347 in the movie of his life.
I don’t know John’s name, but I don’t need to.
I look at John and, sometimes, I smile.
Blackbird (Esher Demo)
