One night when my folks are asleep, I sneak out to the playground, with a ballpoint pen in my hand, to hone my craft in poetry and prose. I write ’em at the back of mom’s grocery bills, family fast food receipts, Victoria’s Secret and Forever 21 receipts. The neighborhood’s tabby cat is my sole companion. It jumps on my lap, asking for another piece of salmon flavored treats, swiping its Angora tail from left to right on the bench where I sat, like a winter wonderland wiper.
Halfway through the night, a man; ruffled hair, and highlighted in thunder blue with tanned skin; make himself feels like home, sitting beside the bench, randomly strums a few chords on his acoustic guitar. The sound of chewing Mars bar for inspiration is as transparent as crickets’ mating season. He looks at me reciting my poetry draft in silence. He asks for the origin of my inspiration. I tell him the trick is to mend episodes of writer’s block in recuperative colors.
Into the drop of velvet glow, every chord transcends to the makeshift of Bruno Mars and Metallica twist. His dream is to rap in the gospel of the New Testament. His pupils became orbit cycles like how a nightclub’s DJ scratching blank vinyl records. Fingers on that fretboard, tapping the nakedness of a long-lost lover, she’s the most beautiful thing penetrates his hungry soul, that every melody invited wrecking stars to paint the ambiance in pitch black picturesque.
Spoken words we’ve excavated in joy and sorrow, we banished fear by combining secondary language like marshmallow cooking throughout the summer breeze. He smiles at my inner childlike poetry making. His laughter makes peace with my karmic past. We meet not by accident. Synchronicity is a guide to remind us we’re walking on the right path. And as the cock crows, I’d fall in love with his songs –
long before him.