Heart of Mine, Be Still

Remember (Hank Mobley)

Woman, you ought to know how annoyed I was when I heard that you’re coming here at an unspecified time tomorrow. I was neck deep into finishing the job assigned to me, you see, when that announcement was made and it disrupted all my train of thoughts. I spent the rest of the day fumbling about, not convinced that I wasn’t having a nervous breakdown, although somehow I made it home without being carried by stretchers.

But let’s talk about you. I resent that despite my insistence to not think much of you anymore so I can let go of bitter memories, you are some of the things that have clung to my recent musings like barnacles to barge. What irritate me more about you are why I become so invigorated whenever I wonder about you, why I keep thinking with certain fondness of all the possibilities of the day when you’ll come comes, and why I keep recalling the way you promenade gracefully and the way your smile makes me delirious like I wouldn’t believe. We’re not close. We haven’t spoken for months, and days of your absence haven’t exactly been reassuring to me that you think much of me as I do you. So what’s going on, then? Why the uncertainty, mixed with resentment, then hopefulness and anticipation?

I have a request for you, woman. Don’t try to act cute by wearing that diaphanous white clothing that I saw you wearing a year ago. I try to avoid talking to people about what my muse looks like, after all.