The yellow cab at the doorstep,
it will take me to the airport.
I will fly away from this spineless city…from this boneless winter.
Roads are like grey repentance,
broken windows are hiding childhoods of fallen imaginations…
I am going away… escaping, running from a hanged slab of meat.
The cabby knows things,
he knows the roads, he knows how people Cross roads in the afternoons of smudged kisses.
His record player is playing a song of memories…
his record player saying how a city can be like a failed first love…
how you can find those last stares in these dark alleys,
those warm winds that roars between two misunderstood soul in the rush of headlights.
But I am going anyway…I will be at the airport in any minute now.
I have a sweater in my suitcase made by my mother…it smells like raw honey,
I have a flame in my suitcase that smells like my mother…
Nothing ever has changed my mind,
nothing ever caused me to think about death without the abstractness of a warm evening…
Goodbyes are always better when they are said in retrospection,
this city has always been a hipster…the texture of an old photograph…
And eventually this goodbye will lead me to another,
another…another…another.
My empire of lost congeniality…my body for the greater roots.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Lexi Marco.