Pictures of you; midnight catastrophe

She walked into his house, the smell of her reminding her of nothing but herself,
Last night's remnants of whiskey and second hand smoke.
What she really wants to be remembered for is him, all of him.
He misses her and she misses you, what kind of perverse universe would play such a sick joke?
While he falls asleep thinking of her, she doesn't quite...
Dreaming of you, hoping for you.
The only reason she wants you back is so she can play mindless games,
That weirdly simulate the most mindful getting-to-know-each-other's-galaxies conversations that either of you has ever had.
Anyhow, it would be so much better than these seconds just ticking away.
Emptily.
So. Empty. 

My Winter Night on a Summer Day

"What would you girls say if I told you it was going to be snowing tonight?"

You never really know until you've been through it, until you look back at it and realise it's over, that last night was potentially one of the best nights of your life. That feeling when you connect with people that's not quite like any other connection you've ever felt before. Not like the ones you forge on the first few days of university bound by uncomfortable talk, dry laughter and chatty indiscretions. Or the ones you make over three years of having seen some people through their worst and best tides. Nor the ones you're expected to make after referring to a lot as your family through the years. These connections you make with souls. When it doesn't matter anymore how high you are, how many substances it took to get you there, how beautiful life looks through this lens with just these people, how you never really knew what it meant to live on the edge until tonight. What matters is how you found a way, against all odds, to be there. How all of us, coexisting on the same plane all our lives, just thousands and thousands of miles away from each others' universe, found a reason within us, to pick the same universe and find each other there. It's like your whole life you've been stuck in a dull zombie movie or a sombre novel that your uncle gave you for your thirteenth birthday and try what you may you just can't get through it and its dead-weight weighs down on you more and more each day, so much so that when this precariously dangerous, adult-borderline-no-coming-back-losing-yourself life brushes past you, all you want to do is cling onto it and somehow make it your own life's biography. 

"I mean who gets to do that kind of stuff? On a freakin' mountain-top!"

Stepped out of my African romance and seeped into my London carnival, thank you for being a reminder of everything I need to look forward to. Conversations through the course of the night that can change how you look at life completely, entirely. Conversations with the help of which your people become my people and mine become yours. Conversations that begin with you finishing my sentences and end with EXACTLY's, just like that. Conversations that you ache the moment they're over, ones that I know are about to arise, because I know exactly what you're going to say with every twitch of the mouth, glimmer of the eyes, movement of the hands, I would know. And yet I couldn't wait for you to say what you were going to say anyway like it was about to change my life. It probably was. You and me, me and you, you and her, her and you, us. I love us.

"Manhattan? Brooklyn? Queens! You girls could totally be from Queens"

Quote my favorite show, make me your favorite character, talk of places even I didn't know I wanted to go so bad that when I hear of them from you every cell in my body does an independent dance of its own. It takes two to tango, salsa, samba... I'd do the dance with you any day. Look at me like you can't believe you haven't been 'see'ing me your whole life, smile at me like you can't believe this is such a good time and we're here living it, tell me how I'm amazing in the most superficial and deep ways you can muster at the same time, reach out for my hand as if it's just another of your limbs, run your hands all over me like you'd want nothing more than to reclaim every inch of me that you haven't been around in only a few days, dance with me like nobody's watching, share with me as if individuality just merged into the stars of this gorgeous city, kiss me like it's the surprise you've been waiting to give me all night long, be happily surprised when I kiss you, unexpectedly, and say to me...

"You know I love talking to you"

Yeah. Just like that. 

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Satellite in my eyes

Like a diamond in the sky

How I wonder

Satellite strung from the moon

And the world your balloon

Peeping Tom for the mother station- Dave Matthews Band

Somewhere in London

Somewhere in London there's a girl, occupying a small space in a large city of blinding lights, tall towers, strange people and an unexpected spray of sunshine. She reminisces about her mountain-top, about her sea-side spot, about her families, old and new and about this carefree life that comes with the travellers' syndrome. Her body in one place, her heart in another, her mind in another and her soul in another. 

Somewhere in London a flight is approaching. With a boy on it, who's a boy no more. At some point through the clouds in the skies and the ones in his eyes he shape-shifted into a man who couldn't be recognised. A man who left his life, beliefs and apprehensions back at the bay, to fight for and embrace the one thing he knows now he loves the most. The one thing he cares about. The one he pushed away from him as much as he could, for years. The one he broke and now hopes to fix. Her. 

Somewhere in London there's a small studio apartment where she steeled herself and gazed unmoved at a heart breaking right in front of her, at her best friend she didn't recognise anymore with all the vulnerabilities only she had ever felt. She let go, tried, broke, and let go. Knowing that if this wasn't meant to be, then no love story would ever make any sense to her again. 

Somewhere in London there's a hotel room with smoke that has cheated it's way into the four clean walls of an unfamiliar, impersonal space. With bad food chucked away after a bite and two glasses of wine warming up and cooling down, untouched. With crumpled sheets and overnight bags and a small pair of hearts entangled, cuddled up, breathing in long breaths at the nape of the neck and that point where the wrist meets the rest of the hand. Eyelashes fluttering shut on another's shoulder and feet grazing. All of it hazy. 

Somewhere in London there is a train parked dreaming of these two hearts. A movie theatre still craving these two pair of eyes as it's favourite audience, a pub refusing their refusal, a club dying to play their music and feel their feet move at an uncanny rhythm, an Asian town scribbling down the memoirs of their oddest tourists, and a door, wishing with all it's might to take back the goodbyes, the tears and all the words that had been said, only to exchange them for the ones that hadn't.

Somewhere in Bombay he waits, 

Somewhere in London she misses him like a traveller misses home. 

"So intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close."
-Pablo Neruda