thoughts from the back of a notebook: spilled pieces

Thoughts from the back of a notebook, from beneath the Game of Thrones castle, from beneath a statue in Croatia, from an airport in the UK, from a lake in Slovenia.

Beneath Stone Castles

I sit and dream of words that won’t come out, of borrowed memories I can’t
forget, beneath stone castles in a blue lagoon. History was made here, and
blood has soaked these walls all the same.

I wish I could choke out a story of shadow monsters and night terrors, of
jealous dream lovers who won’t let you fall asleep.

But I can’t get the words out. Maybe it’s my jet lagged brain running on
the dregs of cheap, red wine and a long night of sharing haunted moments, or
maybe it’s just not my story to tell.

I sit beneath the sun, beneath the stone fortresses that echo blindly. I
sit here, pen in hand, until my bones shake. I sit here until the story eats me
up inside, until there is nothing left but bones.

I close the book, get to my feet, and keep walking.

The Girl From The Airplane

I met her on an airplane. She filled my soul with shadows. I lost myself
in her words.

The Woman From The Pizza Shop

Harsh lights wash out the skin of the woman in the pizza shop, but I think
she’s beautiful anyways. She glances out her window whenever someone gets close,
but most people stroll past in their packs and vacation clothes. People point
and she slices and reheats, face polite, soul weary. I don’t think she’s truly
happy, I feel like her true calling is the sea, salt and spray tangled in her
hair, hot sun and cool breeze a kiss on her skin. Ask me why and I couldn’t tell
you, I’m only watching her hand pizza and sandwiches to tourists. When they
leave, she tries to stay busy, that’s all she needs, just enough to get by,
just enough to breathe. In the moments between where business ends, and someone
new arrives, I see her shoulders settle a little more in weariness.

Simple, that is all I need, or so I say. I do more yearning than living.

I think the woman in the pizza shop does that too.

Hopeless Memories

Today I am just another alien wrapped around bits of broken words picked
up from too many late night encounters with girls who weren’t born speaking English.
That’s when I feel most alive anyways, when I haven’t slept, and some foreign
girl in a hostel bed is pushing all the right buttons, saying all the right
things, letting me dream of distant beaches and heated moments in the sunlight.

You’ll only known me at night.

I wish you would know me by day, when the crowds become too much, when I
hide the beautiful views from my eyes.

A lake of blue-green and a castle high on a hill stand in front of me,
snowcapped mountains to one side, a pristine island church on the other. I hide
them behind tree branches, and half-grown leaves, and scratched sunglasses.

I wish you were here, but which you? I don’t know.

It doesn’t matter, as long as I can pretend to not be fully me for just
one more day, one more night.

But no.

Today my only solace is a dirty ball-cap and a notebook filled with broken
words.