One day maybe I'll be standing barefoot in my tiled kitchen. Alone. Unlonely. I imagine the tiles will be cold - just enough for me to feel. And maybe I'll live in an apartment. Maybe two floors up, with windows showing me the world. With a balcony bringing me life. With white walls decorated with drawing projects and handmade butterflies and stringed polaroids. A radio playing somewhere. Softly. And living rooms smelling of vanilla. Filled with unfinished papers and mahogany furniture and a phone resting on the dinner table with a half completed poem. Neighbours with cotton candy smiles - making you melt in their familiarity. Emails and satisfactory phone calls with family. Friends who I'll go out with, for a good dinner and a simple night out with the stars strewn across the sky. With everything just right - in place, with no loose ends, no self destructive regrets.
Maybe I'll be watering my plants beside my banana pancakes, and thinking I made just the right life for myself.
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Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
