a familiar little melancholy kicks in
like the last couple of puffs of a joint being passed around
a group of good friends
now it's just my turn
(nothing more, nothing less)
the tips of my fingers tingling with reality
as memories gently stir that line between the conscious
and the unconscious
like a half-remembered song
sitting somewhere between your lips
and nothing
it's as if I made eye contact with the city
for the first time
and fallen in love (again)
with its every move
its every smile
the way it sleeps
the harrowing complexities accompanying
the feeling of leaving a place
that's just started feeling like home
(daydreaming about London
in London.)
