Columbia Circle
I lived in a neighborhood called Columbia Circle.
I didn’t know the city.
The street was quiet.
There were trees,
and small houses.
There were many coffee shops.
Too many.
People sat there like they had nowhere else to go.
Sometimes I stayed there alone.
You could always see a few people like that.
At the next table, people talked a lot.
Their voices sounded confident,
like they knew where they were going.
I felt lucky I didn’t have to join.
That place felt gentle.
Familiar, but never really mine.
Like I was born there,
but I didn’t belong there.
One night,
I rode through the street
and passed by an art workshop
set up outside a coffee shop.
The ground there was still wet.
I saw a friend there.
She looked stunning,
running the workshop.
We used to have a lot of lovely time together.
I wanted to go in and say hi.
But I stopped,
and walked straight home.
I turned on my big TV.
Watched my favorite show.
In Columbia Circle,
that feeling followed me.