Post It

It was sometime during the past few weeks; I pulled out the yellow post it pad and wrote down my phone number. I handed it to her and with a smile made comment that it would be nice to hear from her. I waited. By the phone mind you. I continued to wait. I wanted to say, "I'm the one you're not looking for" (Marquez 87). I saw someone else, during those few weeks. I made comment that I liked her and wanted her to be mine. She responded with the question, what would happen if I said yes. Pondering her statement, I turned my head, sat down and waited by the phone. If I see her tomorrow and she says hello, I'll try hard not to wish for her saying good morning; greeting me like brightness piercing a slit in a curtain or for a yearning good night to admonish my rest like a hooting owl welcomes darkness. How tormenting the idea of love; we all wait in line to have our cups filled with what we think we need. I refuse to daydream when her perfume reaches my nostrils, I refuse to hope when my eyes force darkness but her face is there welcoming me with light. I will pack my dreams inside a bottle, and place my wishes on fragments of paper. I'll seal it tight, no other dreams can go inside, and place it in Destiny's hand. It's hard to imagine her role when I've had communion with Faith; do they both disappoint?