The woman's gray hair in front of me falls over her shoulder. It's amost white, although she doesn't look that old. Her cheap leather jacket doesn't go with the fancy golden purse. Who cares? She tries not to fall on the gray and wet sidewalk that seems to be a mirror reflecting the gray and wet sky. It embraces the city, invites people to go underground. So i go.
Down down down. Step back, let the grumpy pass. I try to reach my travel card as the Tesco bags swing through the dirty air. My tomatoes are probably squeezed between the cheese and the yogurt. Or smashed against the wall. To Bakerloo, turn right. Mind the doors. Smell the gutter. Forget the cold. Feel the heat. Watch your step: tloc tloc tloc. What do you think she is thinking right now? Keep on moving. Read the signs. A lock of my hair covers my left eye. I barely see my feet. Listen. "Me gustan los aviones, me gustas tu. Me gusta viajar, me gustas tu." I wish i could give him a coin. Or a stage. I want a stage. I want a trip. I want you. Let me get out.
I'm cold again. My arms are heavy. It's almost 8. I'm late.
posted by carol de marchi @ 4:43 AM
4 Comments:
:(
Honey... Que bom te ler de novo... Mesmo que em inglês.
Tu me perdoa por não ter ido na tua despedida?
Já tô morrando de saudades, que porra!!!!!
a pri nos tirou dos favourite links dela...
(somos más escritoras? ;))
não, é que vcs não atualizavam, só isso.
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