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.
