The Poet sat in an armchair, holding an empty glass. A moment ago, there had been a drink in it. He looked wearily at the book on the table. It was his debut collection of poems, only just arriving in bookstores. He wasn't enjoying it because he had no one to share it with. Alicja had passed away two days ago; on Saturday. The Poet remembered what she had said as she packed her things into a large brown suitcase.
"I can't be with someone like you. You're a constant dreamer, a penniless optimist. How do you imagine your future life? You can't live off poetry. You can't get enough of dreams. Your thoughts are always wandering, you don't pay attention to me. I need something else. Goodbye."
She didn't know that in two days, the Poet's poems, for which he had received a large sum of money, would appear in bookstores. It was supposed to be a surprise...
At that moment, the Poet was indifferent. He had time to analyze everything and came to the conclusion that Alice was not the woman in his life. She wasn't his friend, but also his muse and inspiration. Alice tried to subjugate his life. It was a toxic relationship. The poet wanted to shake off the lethargy he had been in since the door slammed behind her. He fought like a knight against the sadness and depression that enveloped him. However, regret danced in his head, repeatedly attacking his thoughts with memories of good times spent with Alice. The man knew those moments were few; he wanted this awareness to give him the strength to live. Unfortunately, two Poets were fighting within him. One wanted to forget Alice as quickly as possible and return to a normal world. The other—the "sick one"—wanted to continue remembering her, thus suffering ever more. The poet knew he had to defeat the "sick one"…
He put his glass down on the table and picked up the volume. His volume. The fruit of his year-long relationship with Alice. He glanced at the cover. The woman in the flowing white dress seemed strangely repulsive to him, and the title was too loud. Angrily, he threw the book against the wall. He rose from his armchair, put on his coat, and left the apartment. He wanted only one thing… to find the Poet.
In the park, he noticed a girl sitting on a bench. She couldn't be called beautiful, yet the Poet instinctively felt she was special. He approached and noticed that the girl was crying.
"What happened?" he asked anxiously, gazing into her tear-filled blue eyes. "Has anyone hurt you?
" "It's fate," the girl replied. "For the last three days, I've been happy, but fate probably decided that three days of joy was too much. Sadness entered my life again. I loved, but the feeling wasn't reciprocated." The Poet felt a strange need to talk to the girl. He touched her shoulder and said.
"Two days ago, I lost someone I cared about. The woman I was with for a year abandoned me. However, I feel that in some way I have regained my freedom, that the chains that bound me to Alicja have been lifted from my hands. She tried to manipulate me. Despite this… I suffer. I fight the pain that lies deep within me. And I believe I will win this battle."
The girl lowered her head. Her long hair obscured her face. And her eyes were full of suffering.
"You're a poet, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes," the man confirmed. "
I knew it. You can even speak beautifully about pain. That's the mark of a true poet… What do you think love is?
" "Dante Alighieri said that love moves the sun and the stars, so it must be something great," the Poet said.
The girl fell into thought.
"Yes, Dante was right. Love moves the sun and the stars." Except, in my case, they were so deeply moved that they fell on my head and crushed me to the earth, which mockingly whispers, "Stupid, naive girl. How could you think he would love you?" I kiss this hard earth, hoping it would part and pull me into the abyss, then quietly descend again. So that no one would know what had happened. But it is stubborn. It refuses to help me. If only it would take me to its center, I would avoid further failures and disappointments. I would disappear, and no one would notice I was gone. Especially not it. The earth won't help me; it prefers to laugh; it prefers to torment me with its whispers. I pray the rain to wash away from me, in a powerful torrent, all memories of this man. The rain falls slowly to the earth, and the slamming drops sympathize with it, singing a single word: "Naive." The rain won't help me. So I beg the wind to blow from my mind the image of the one who makes me suffer. Unfortunately… the wind hears what the earth whispers and the rain sings. And it joins them. It carries the message around the world: "She thought he would love her. Fool." All I can do is pray to the waves to accept me when I want to jump off the cliffs," the girl said, rising.
"Goodbye," she whispered, moving forward.
The poet sat speechless on the bench. Suddenly, he felt all his sadness leave him; he realized he had found the woman he was looking for. He had found the Poet.
He came to the park every day, but he couldn't meet the Poet. One day, on Thursday, while passing a high-rise building, he noticed a police car, an ambulance, and a crowd of onlookers gathered around a black body bag. He didn't need to approach and ask what had happened.
Two days later, a bouquet of roses appeared on the park bench, and an inscription carved into the backrest, which some believed was an act of vandalism; and according to others, a beautiful confession of a loving poet:
"I HOPE THE WAVES RECEIVED YOU WELL. YOU MOVED THE SUN AND THE STARS ABOVE ME. THANKS TO YOU, THEY SHINE BRIGHTER. AND KNOW THAT YOU ALSO COULD SPEAK BEAUTIFULLY ABOUT PAIN. YOU WERE A POET."
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