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
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
Oh my God. So fabulous I have no words. Felt every word reverberate in my heart.
ReplyDeleteThis I loved reading. Reminded me of many things.
ReplyDeleteMoving. Very
ReplyDeletenow that, was intense. as fiction courting a bit of self should be. :)
ReplyDelete