Morning comes. But a part of me is waking up. The little fragment that didn’t mind this night of no sleep. A night of firsts. A night of some self-imposed strong decisions. Whose love is it anyway?
Not yours nor mine for sure. Not hers or his- the two that do not exist. Except in glimpses of the past. Flow down cold feelings. On a foggy, long winding road. They stop and kiss under the street light.
Whose love is it anyway?
What if the mocking bird won’t sing again? What if the souls that got stuck in the sticky warm night- never managed to unglue- even after death?
The cold did not scald my skin- as much as your touch did. But my heart- I left somewhere on those cold rocks. Some other day- perhaps I may find it.
Those lucky crossroads, skinned knees, bruised elbows and this slow settling feeling. That if you hug me here, the next turn will be better.
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