slow sunday morning xvii

Trips for four, five days. Enough to get just a taste, enough to leave me wanting more. What a sweet escape: a place new to me, home to someone else. The smell of foreign shampoo lingers on your pillowcase, and in my hair. We wander through costume stores wearing each other’s coats, as if the costumes we're wearing already aren’t enough. I’d paint a portrait of you while we sit on the bus if my pencil was oil, if the inspiration would travel down from my head into my fingertips. Travel in the colder months, of which there are many where my friends can be found, feels distinctly cheekier; summer is the time for vacations, what do I think I’m doing galavanting around in the slush and snow? Trying your version of crappy, get-it-done coffee, letting you pick the songs that will travel between my earbud and yours? I've made this house, uh... room, a home. These are the scenarios that bounce in my head on afternoons like these, the slow ones. Everywhere I was before I found myself here, and…

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