another saturday, another year. beautiful blue, warm sun, and spring is showing her skirts... i'm still here lurking in corners, reading, re-reading, re-feeling words that seemed to unroll themselves effortlessly on the page. they wrote themselves using my fingers. now? now. i'm still. living in the dirty city, full of quirky folk and obscene scenery. but i'm itching...
~~~
this year will be my last in the 40's. this year, my gift is Dublin,London and Inverness. full of all the things i've held dear as a young girl (music and books). the lands of bowie and austen, bono and the boys, brontes and joyce, and highlanders...words and notes. words and notes...
~~~
every now and then i capture the blush of a girl, remembering the first kiss, the first love, the shy boy with the crooked smile. and i'm grateful to have lived it. soft and tender, heartbreaking. i was. i was.
~~~
underneath all the hard and frustration, disappointment at what it's all become, i still find that dear girl and sometimes mourn her.
~~~
this year will be my last in the 40's. this year, my gift is Dublin,London and Inverness. full of all the things i've held dear as a young girl (music and books). the lands of bowie and austen, bono and the boys, brontes and joyce, and highlanders...words and notes. words and notes...
~~~
every now and then i capture the blush of a girl, remembering the first kiss, the first love, the shy boy with the crooked smile. and i'm grateful to have lived it. soft and tender, heartbreaking. i was. i was.
~~~
underneath all the hard and frustration, disappointment at what it's all become, i still find that dear girl and sometimes mourn her.