The last two weeks floated past in a dim, insignificant haze. The weather has been soft and unexpectedly warm. I got to wear my pink lace dress without a coat and a man with lonely eyes whispered 'beautiful' at me like it was an accusation. It probably was. As soon as the rare sun comes out my confidence soars. Just as I write this though I've noticed the ominous patter of rain against my window has returned. oh well.
I am holding onto a last thread. The world is open. I dream with such determination it's almost laughable. Six weeks and I can take that train to Dublin, wait a while, let the city sink in, and then a midnight ferry to London, watching the last lights across the bay and cutting each one off like another old lover. The wind in my hair and the salt of sea clinging to my skin and stinging my eyes. I am happiest when I'm moving. Happiest when I let my self softly out the door, everyone else asleep, unaware of their pre-dawn vulnerability.
A little lipstick print on a tea-cup in the sink- a final kiss, a parting gift.
I know I'll never stay in one place forever.
|London in December (image mine)|
|Dublin across the sea at night (image mine)|