Poetry

77. about crossing the Channel

1 london forgot about me

In London, a boy with a heavy rucksack collapsed into my naked lap, and smiled with the gusto only children (and drunken men) can still muster. I lit a cigarette and placed it between his clumsy fingers. Gorgeous, he whispered.

Gorgeous, I nodded, and said my farewells to Albion that night.

 

2 so i ran to paris instead

In Paris, we were still young. We walked waiting for morning with the birds, then welcoming night in the arms of French  drunkards – two girls folded in the creases of a memory obscured by wine.

Europe was hungover and forgot about us when the season turned, but we kept her in our heart all the same.

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