And maybe one night
when the air starts to feel warmer
we’ll all end up with glasses of discounted wine in our hands, climbing stairs to a rooftop
and olive stones crumpled up in white napkins
Like our talks on getting your skin inked without planning it,
long road trips
and real good friends you won’t see in years
– too wide for our eye bags filled with sleep to redeem and money to buy our summers of getaways to talk about on those city rooftops.
And maybe we’ll all end up wandering with no deadline,
leaving the office filling our days to give them all a fil rouge to follow,
some sort of bad excuse to hold tight to when having breakfast on a weekend with people curious about your way of phrasing your purpose, now and here.
Here’s to train rides with the sun setting fire to the sky of an April morning,
a man playing with a game boy on the seat next to mine,
the quiet promise of a flight booked in the secrecy of the night – not a word with anyone but your circle of trust and some strangers met along the way of those last days in your mother town.
Here’s to flights to be on time for,
months of improvisation and watering yourself along the way – it’s important to keep your curiosity alive and your roots well tied.
Here’s to days passing by without making much noise,
without weighing your body changing with landscapes outside the window of a house that you’ll make home in a new neighbourhood,
to the people to let out and those who’ll swing by and to those who’ll stay a while longer,
even when the glasses are empty and the clothes stained
with the scars you tried to hide.
Here’s to the stories to weave in yours,
and arms to fit in,
without losing the fil rouge you’ve been searching for in this tangle of thoughts you crafted in those times spent pondering and getting all wrapped up into it,
letting that fucking fil rouge slip from your fingers
– because too cautious,
because too scared to seek what you deserve.
Here’s to coffee paid with coins weighing in the pocket of your jeans,
falling into tiny bad habits to use as icebreakers
in hostels in the outskirts of unknown cities,
to the nights alone and those spent tracing new shapes and skins and voices in the space of a caress,
to burn them onto your mind and carry with you along the way.
Here’s to another glass emptied in your lungs craving for some fresh air,
the one you’ve been trying to swab with stories in mid-air and uncultivated love stories.
Here I find myself,
with a ticket bought in the secrecy of a midweek night,
holding tight to the promise I made to my 18-year-old self of trusting this fil rouge
found right where I knew I’d find it,
I can’t wait to go get what this crazy ass world has to offer.