this side of the city is old, crumbling
full of magic and life
like the earth
the narrow cobblestone streets
snake through climbing white walls
find the path behind the cactus garden
it will bring you to the space overlooking
snow-capped peaks and rabbit holes
feel the air
as you run along
see the trail, hear the song, smell the fire
there is no bad taste
in the heart
I sit at one café,
dreaming of another.
lean in towards eachother
whispering what they've heard,
or perhaps to feel the space between.
a gypsy named Marino plays outside my window.
I hear the murmur of energy within,
watch the oranges split,
prepare my lips for their tart juice.
I see snow-frosted peaks,
escaping from the cold.
It's a feeling. We grasp onto certain threads; woven through our hearts are stories of pleasure and pain. The city holds it in her walls, her streets, each stone. Placed one by one. I notice how one man's line inevitably affects the rest. The choice of one pebble throwing the rest into a spiral, carpeting the hillside in unforeseen patterns. The guitar still flutters in my chest.