3.30 in the Albaicin
Outside, hidden in the shadows of the black mountain a dog barks lazily into the deep blue sky. The sound rips through the silence like a knife through a sheet.
The wind, if you can call the air that creeps in through my window by such a name, carries the dying notes of a guitar away towards the sea.
The slow and steady sound of my heart echoes through my bed, beating a rhythmic counterpoint to the chaotic twinkling of the stars.
Albaicin Wind
Today, you are not carrying a thousand silent dreams of night away and the dog's bark makes it's own way across the valley.
The trees do not stir, nor do the birds hang like kites on your swirling invisibility. The voices of passing women rise upon the rippling waves of heat baked into the cobbles by an unforgiving sun.
But yesterday you came to me excited and hot, tearing at my skin and thoughts, alive with unseen conversations from people I'd never meet. Yesterday you had a belly full of insects, a baby's cry and the scent of cooking thyme.
And you brought to me, as you always do, the memory of one I can see but cannot touch, a few scattered vibrations of her voice to ring around the hollow bell of my heart.
30,00 feet and rising
A head full of mountains, horses and you. Of baking streets with burning burnished cobbles. The relentless sun bears down on us all, giving us life and death without question or choosing.
I get through the oppressive days by dreaming of a distant tomorrow when I'll be lying on a shady river bank with you, so near we can actually touch and fall into each others eyes.
Together, we can dream of golden tomorrows full of canvasses and pens, and silent sitting. And, maybe, we can cross the distances between the stars by simply holding hands.