We enter a café
Same tables, same menu
same indifferent gaze
of those who ask for our cards.
They write our name on the mug
because remembering our face
doesn’t serve any scope:
our interaction
is a transaction, after all.

Do you mind if I sit?
Of course not.
Our mugs introduce themselves
no need for us to repeat.
Now we share the table
We sit close
ignoring each other, we work
maybe we could exchange a word
but not now.
For now we breathe, procrastinating
procrastinating so much that then we say:
Have a nice day
See you around.

We yearn for love
but before we need to build ourselves
We cry out for some relax
but we need to be patient until Sunday
or the next month.
We crave some warmth
but we live in houses
which are too white
where life does not taste
too strong.

Yet for us time is sacred
quantifiable, capitalisable
hence for now we procrastinate
procrastinate to retirement
everything we have always intended to do.
“When the moment comes” we say
but for now we must sacrifice
and yet the moment
like a shadow moves
always a step further
and we can never afford
to catch it.

Then someday the phone rings
your friend is in the hospital
a plane has no more wings
you hadn’t replied to her message
whilst you kept procrastinating
all this time you thought you had
without a presage.

Perhaps time it’s sacred
perhaps we have it all
but it takes it an instant
to show that we’re flesh which opens up
blood which runs out, bones which break down.
If we squeeze too much we become red
and then black.
If we push too much
we stop working:
it takes way less than an ax to hurt us.

We all know.
And yet there’s awe
when things don’t work anymore.
In truth it’s a miracle
to still be around
for another day
together in one piece
to talk, colour, love, risk
live and stop

Published by silvialazzaris

Italian writer based in the UK.

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