Breathe.
When I turn around and I see the two of you, that's where I want to be.
A place where the background changes landscapes like watching an old, silent, black and white movie being played out in some art-nouveau museum that I've wanted to go to all my life, only so I can sit in a dark and quiet room and do nothing but watch beautiful women blow smoke at the camera while holding a thin cigarette in dandelion-like fingers.
Romanticise.
If I wake up feeling like Sinatra and go to bed feeling like Bukowski, that's how I want to feel. If I have an apartment on an untouched-by-culture-fusion lane in Barcelona, I want you two there. When I look up and see the sun streaming in to destroy the unneeded presence of all the lamps made from all the hands that I'll never know, I want to be able to see you two when I turn back around to pick up that lighter from the shade. I want to see you fighting over bathroom hours, bed choices, men choices, life choices and making meaningful trivialities like picking up one thought from every mile travelled just to have a sentence at the end of your life that everyone wants to be a part of because it's the most hauntingly-liberating sentence they would've ever heard. I want to see you when I look up from the playlist of love, the summer of life, the bar of exotic and from the mind of one who is truly forlorn.
Describe.
Galleries, museums, open-top buses, hair in the wind, smoke swirling in loose strands of hair, dingy poison coves, with flames atop the poison making it even more poisonous and lustful, sand in the space between my toes and slippers, ruffled sheets and invaded sanctuary's, French distractions and some memories that have a way of making their presence felt even as they are occurring, telling you slowly, softly, that try as you may, you sure as hell won't forget me. When a tear escapes, my heart breaks and goes out to you and I can't comprehend why on Earth something on this planet would be cruel enough to hurt you. If I had two hearts I would give them both to you, but for now, here, I've broken this one in two. A half each. Don't think I'm going to be needing it for a long time. Keep it.
See.
Keep it and the next time you're jumping off a plane, or a cliff or a height that you've reached all by yourself, don't think but for a moment, for one moment think of me and take that piece of me with you because I will dream of it. Because I will dream of the jubilation and the adrenaline pumping through me and the pure happiness at finding no one else but you two on the ground, and it will be like I'm there. I'll dream of that perpetual drowsy feeling easily mistaken for inebriation but mostly just contentment, a feeling of not wanting to move an inch from where I stood, with you. I'll dream of brilliantly blue waters like a sea of our perfect reflections that I could swim in for an eternity, I'll dream of tapping feet, all-consuming music and the most fierce kind of intensity we may ever get to see in swishing red dresses and sharp black suits in the form of this illusion called flamenco... and I'll sleep soundly.
Devour.
Snapshots of a lifetime. A lifetime. That I don't want to leave behind. People I could never get over, because some are meant as balm for the soul. And I'm told that when you find the sort you dance yourself into oblivion, into a world where you can only see them and the Irish voices, dizzying lights and the gliteratti just become mere tapestry in the room where a genius song was being composed. One whose music was composed on the beach as the sun came up, and lyrics coined as a beautiful island neared from very many thousand feet up in the sky, where birds would be envious of you. A song, that was bound to sync every nerve, every vein in your body with the perfect movie. A movie, that was us.
Reel.
When an expanse of blue merges with white and all you have to do is plunge into the deep end of the blue only to resurface at the darkest hour with the brightest stars paving your way and dim candles and frosted glasses illuminating your life, nothing can possibly go wrong. When we have each other and we have the best fucking Swedish music bursting through our temples and right down to electrifying our toes, we have nothing to worry about and we have nothing to yearn for. Except this. So much more of this. And so much more of life, in different latitudes and longitudes and coasts and mountains and poisons. You two are like sangria- delicious happiness in a jar. Don't try and wake me up just yet. Let the best dream I've ever had, finish, please.
Breathe.
-And the seasons
Will change us new
But you're the best I've known
And you know me
I could not be stuck on you
If it weren't true- Blind Pilot
When I turn around and I see the two of you, that's where I want to be.
A place where the background changes landscapes like watching an old, silent, black and white movie being played out in some art-nouveau museum that I've wanted to go to all my life, only so I can sit in a dark and quiet room and do nothing but watch beautiful women blow smoke at the camera while holding a thin cigarette in dandelion-like fingers.
Romanticise.
If I wake up feeling like Sinatra and go to bed feeling like Bukowski, that's how I want to feel. If I have an apartment on an untouched-by-culture-fusion lane in Barcelona, I want you two there. When I look up and see the sun streaming in to destroy the unneeded presence of all the lamps made from all the hands that I'll never know, I want to be able to see you two when I turn back around to pick up that lighter from the shade. I want to see you fighting over bathroom hours, bed choices, men choices, life choices and making meaningful trivialities like picking up one thought from every mile travelled just to have a sentence at the end of your life that everyone wants to be a part of because it's the most hauntingly-liberating sentence they would've ever heard. I want to see you when I look up from the playlist of love, the summer of life, the bar of exotic and from the mind of one who is truly forlorn.
Describe.
Galleries, museums, open-top buses, hair in the wind, smoke swirling in loose strands of hair, dingy poison coves, with flames atop the poison making it even more poisonous and lustful, sand in the space between my toes and slippers, ruffled sheets and invaded sanctuary's, French distractions and some memories that have a way of making their presence felt even as they are occurring, telling you slowly, softly, that try as you may, you sure as hell won't forget me. When a tear escapes, my heart breaks and goes out to you and I can't comprehend why on Earth something on this planet would be cruel enough to hurt you. If I had two hearts I would give them both to you, but for now, here, I've broken this one in two. A half each. Don't think I'm going to be needing it for a long time. Keep it.
See.
Keep it and the next time you're jumping off a plane, or a cliff or a height that you've reached all by yourself, don't think but for a moment, for one moment think of me and take that piece of me with you because I will dream of it. Because I will dream of the jubilation and the adrenaline pumping through me and the pure happiness at finding no one else but you two on the ground, and it will be like I'm there. I'll dream of that perpetual drowsy feeling easily mistaken for inebriation but mostly just contentment, a feeling of not wanting to move an inch from where I stood, with you. I'll dream of brilliantly blue waters like a sea of our perfect reflections that I could swim in for an eternity, I'll dream of tapping feet, all-consuming music and the most fierce kind of intensity we may ever get to see in swishing red dresses and sharp black suits in the form of this illusion called flamenco... and I'll sleep soundly.
Devour.
Snapshots of a lifetime. A lifetime. That I don't want to leave behind. People I could never get over, because some are meant as balm for the soul. And I'm told that when you find the sort you dance yourself into oblivion, into a world where you can only see them and the Irish voices, dizzying lights and the gliteratti just become mere tapestry in the room where a genius song was being composed. One whose music was composed on the beach as the sun came up, and lyrics coined as a beautiful island neared from very many thousand feet up in the sky, where birds would be envious of you. A song, that was bound to sync every nerve, every vein in your body with the perfect movie. A movie, that was us.
Reel.
When an expanse of blue merges with white and all you have to do is plunge into the deep end of the blue only to resurface at the darkest hour with the brightest stars paving your way and dim candles and frosted glasses illuminating your life, nothing can possibly go wrong. When we have each other and we have the best fucking Swedish music bursting through our temples and right down to electrifying our toes, we have nothing to worry about and we have nothing to yearn for. Except this. So much more of this. And so much more of life, in different latitudes and longitudes and coasts and mountains and poisons. You two are like sangria- delicious happiness in a jar. Don't try and wake me up just yet. Let the best dream I've ever had, finish, please.
Breathe.
-And the seasons
Will change us new
But you're the best I've known
And you know me
I could not be stuck on you
If it weren't true- Blind Pilot
