My city-streets never run out of poetry, or of kind strangers in road-stalls who with slight-shy smiles and untired fingertips show the way. You could never get lost in this city. Here, shoes never wear out even after they have worn out and the memory of them remains everywhere, where the air tastes of happy impulses of throwing your life away and breaking down in tears in the middle of the street in a sudden rush of affection for an old lover. Where we shout our young rage and delicate throats hoarse calling for utopia till our voices die in the unlit alleys where ghosts and secrets linger, where gaps in languages spill meaning so much that we hear the prices of sweet things wrong and come away thinking we are happy. You could never get lost in this city, here where there is love waiting around every corner and all the roads lead to home.
Come see me, sometime.
YOU ARE READING
Arcadia
PoetrySpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||
