Friday

The slanting sunlight was reaching this particular Friday…
—All Fridays are the same!
He was sleeping like a house cat.
—The Friday?
The Air with her long fingers was stroking his back.
—The Friday is a He?
He purred in between hours.
—All Fridays are sleepy.
The world that he was designated to, made him anesthetic.
—This is wearing me out…
He was used to slipping in and out of all other days. Accommodate ends and beginnings.
—Sometimes Ends are Beginnings.
But now he stood on the muddy road in the morning mist.
—I thought he was sleeping.
He is a beautiful He.
—Agh! Again with the beauty!
With a boyish scar on his left cheek.
—You have a real obsession with beauty.
He looked like a war-returned soldier.
—I guess everyone does. Even to have pity you need a pretty face!
Disillusioned.
—Ah…I thought Fridays are all illusion.
Praying no more.
—That’s a shame.  Abba always looked so peaceful after the Jumma Namaj.  And in Fridays, listening to Rabindra Songs, quite often feels like prayer to me.
Searching no more.
— This is wearing me out…
What do you want?
—Can you just kiss me?
Let the Friday pass…
—Why? He’s not my lover.
Yeah, but he loves you.
—Why?
Because you make him depressed. Because you say the things that make a purring cat annoyed. Because you smile seeing a dead flower finally fall to the ground to its peace. Because your hair falls over your breasts like wild river flows over moonlit mountains. Because your fingertips trembles by the wind that brings the news of rain. Because you lie on the floor and put you your feet up in the window light. Because at the bottom of your throat there is a nest where lives a deaf Crow, who only can feel things eyes closed, in fetal darkness. Because…
No… nothing. Come here. No, I’ll come. Can I kiss your fingertips?



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