can taste the foreign air…how the sun feels different, how the dogs bark in another language, how i’ll feel at home. ducking into small cafes to drink coffee and eat bread. walking through old streets where history sleeps, i’ll want to smoke and think of hemingway or picasso…go back in time when there were no worries about walking bombs…
home eludes me. it’s no longer where mom is, no longer here… it’s in quiet melacholy moments, tucked at the lone table and chair with a people view, in times when i go back and remember loving you…
51. a strange number to contemplate.
i’ll be sitting sipping wine and eating chocolate, talking to dali’s ghost thousands of miles away…
