there’s this song. it catches every time i think it’s about to flatten.
instead it gets louder and more dramatic until it takes room inside my head without paying rent.
if i close my eyes, i can see the strokes of the brush against the concrete, i taste the hot sweet cranberries on my tongue, i can feel the thin glass stem in my hand, i can hear my song in my ears, echoing, this song, i’ve heard this song before.
i don’t even have to close my eyes to remember the feeling of being in paris, in madrid, in glasgow, helsinki, here, there. my eyes are burnt, my heart is missing pieces.
i can hear my song in my ears, echoing, this song, i’ve heard this song before.
paint stroke, dry colors and water mixed into one, the table white beneath the thin paper. brown on the bottom, brown boots, long legs. the concept that leads my life-i simply seem to follow.
how could i not? those brown boots have walked the streets of more countries than i can count on both hands.
they know where we are suppose to go.