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photo journal

granada

jillian rose

I sit at one café,

dreaming of another.

an americano

café "cortao".

white-washed buildings

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,

tiled floors

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.  

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