Subira

Waiting was my name by accident. “Subira” the man called me by the wrong title. “Ashura. My name is Ashura.” “Yes, but Subira is the same thing.” This he spat at me under stars over holed concrete. Damion Marley on blast, 350 ml of ginger soda, a sip and Subira, he said so I became waiting.

It is often strange how the loudest spaces offer so much time for pensation. Feet obey the rhythmic laws of Reggae, frequent glances to my partner prove I am here. I crave these encounters under moon light so loud I rethink thoughts. This, tonight on the edge of the Indian ocean, water sparkles, a light house. I remember waiting to arrive and now I am here waiting. Subira, the man spoke, so I blessed haste to move.