(no subject)
I dreamt last night that I was in your country. It was dark and I was, inexplicably, leading some of my friends to get gelato in the winter weather. We passed over Arzobispo bridge, then along Providencia. Around the Manuel Montt metro stop I started looking for you. For some reason I didn't have your number, so I irritated my companions by slowing down at every restaurant or shop window, searching for a familiar face. Past the tiny pretentious restaurant where we shared overpriced Italian antipasti, past Cabo Frio and all of the tourists out front, past the big stone church we had all seen when we were drunk and I was skipping down the ice-cold road. A needle in a haystack, one person out of five million, but it felt so real, that in an instant I would feel a hand on my shoulder and your warm rough lips against my cheek and you would greet me, "hey nineteen," como siempre.
Then I woke up and remembered that it is not 2006, that the subject of said reverie is living in New York City, and that maybe I need to create a little more excitement for myself so I stop romanticizing temps perdu.
Then I woke up and remembered that it is not 2006, that the subject of said reverie is living in New York City, and that maybe I need to create a little more excitement for myself so I stop romanticizing temps perdu.