//el coto
the sour green of young leaves is oozing from the branches and i open my mouth. the rain softens but the wind will not give up. and i better learn from it but i dismiss it with another swear word. it's one of those things — northern may winds are romantic as a concept, but don't bring much elation in reality. if anything, they pull backwards and drain. but rains fill and leave me staring at the bleached sky in delight. all that is to say that i'm still capable of appreciating the sky and that makes me feel like myself every now and then.
as i bike i think — who else would show these roads these tracks (скриптонит — это любовь)? and as i journal i reflect — how often i think about those i loved. how i pick u a certain wine (el coto) and think about those balmy summer nights when t. and i picked up the said wine and went to the water. we got wine-tipsy and half walking half kissing made our way home and made love. or how i still (today) wear that joy division t-shirt, it somehow survived the mass massacre of all that reminds me of n. or how i still listen to malbec & siuzanna and recall when a. and i kissed long through the night sitting on some non-bench construction of wood? iron? i just remember that it was cold, it was wet etc etc. loud thunderstorms make me think of e. and that abandoned bulding and how i was wearing (and then not wearing) that gray hoodie of mine.