Synaesthesia Magazine Cities - Page 106

It's 3am, and the

neon flash of that sign you hate

lights up the corners of the room

in four second strikes.


The blue echoes across your sin,

turns your lips cornflower cold

as a ghost.

If it weren't for the heat of your breath on my chest

I could swear you were dead.

But the thrum of your heart through your breasts

is there.

Still fighting the beat of the bright blue bulb.

I can tell you've been crying –

it's those short little breaths that pepper your sleep

catching thoughts in your throat

as you inhale deep.

What was it you said?

"There's so many places.

The world isn't confined to this shitty old city –

There are other towns, other ways

to live, to just be. To find a release

from the hustling whores and the sirens of police.

Did you know there's a place called Pristina?

Can't you just imagine? 'Pristine'...

Clean, with crystal clear skies and crystal clear lakes.

Where the only light in your eyes is

the sun in the sky.

Or how about Naypyidaw?

I read it in a magazine just the other day,

it's in Asia. I couldn't spell it if I tried.

How about that?" you cried "A city

Whose name I can't even pronounce is called

'Home', for hundreds and thousands and more.

And we barely step foot out the fucking front door."

I didn't mention Pristina is Kosovan,

and there's barely housing never mind picturesque views but

I got the gist.

If I could, my darling, I would give you them all; your own

Tbilisi, Tashkent or Tallinn, but till then

All I can give is this bed and this bedsit and me.

But with you in my arms

we can make a whole world while we wait

to escape.

An awe some embrace, bathed in the flash of the light that you hate.

by Jo Davey