Two-hundred and Sixty-six: The Perfect Breeze

It’s the evening of The Perfect Breeze.
The one that feels like kisses and safety.
I am walking on a road framed by neon signs,
one little anonymous atom in a big city pond.
There is honeysuckle to my left,
scents leaving trails of sighs across my cheek like a lover’s touch.
I long for these streets during the day,
for the songs of life that helter-skelter through me like a spontaneous, relentless tune.
I see beauty parlours, bubble-gum pink,
with late-night, last-minute customers primping and preening.
I keep going. I am a mess.
I am Johnny Walker headed for Johnny Walker (neat).
If I was a number, I would be eight.
Am I late? I don’t know.
When I walk, nothing exists except for the road.
Every now and then I look back,
searching for the beacon of a taxi cab and when I see it,
I’ll stab the air with my hand to beckon it to me.
I reckon it would rock if we could stick out our arms
and hail cabs for every problem.
But here, surrounded by fluorescent pollution,
I think: knowing how to get from Point A to Point B isn’t the solution,
because the letters always change.
I need to learn to jump on other trains of thoughts.
To fly into my imagination.
To ride ideas.
To find corners where I thought there was nothing but dead ends,
To search for names of places in my dreams,.
To brake when life throws me red lights.
If I can learn to navigate the map of my mind,
then I needn’t be so scared of this journey.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

7 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Sixty-six: The Perfect Breeze”

  1. Navigating from point A to point B doesn’t seem to be the problem. I find myself with a million and one excuses to turn around and return to point A.

    I set foot upon the path from A to B on Monday night and set up a date for Sunday. By Tuesday night I was already looking back at point A saying, “what if”.

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