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sitting and waiting. for david. im waiting again. coffee's done suitcase is blue. not because its empty but because its full. socks exploding out of the drawer and a pile of paintings left unsold. papers in stacks that will never be read or sorted. and books and books and three balls of yarn.

moving again with my favourite photographs and art printed post cards. with my blue suitcase and my sleeping bag. a handful of earrings and a hemingway novel. he puts paris in my night time dreams again. nineteen twenty with street trams and white wine. his life described does not sound so different from that of mine in spain. it is a magical place this europe he writes of. fashion and couture. ripped stockings and a notebook for me. 

sketchbook and graphite a stone bench and leather shoes. garcia lorca poetry in my back pocket. words to live by. words to love by. i see his photograph everyday. he is also a man from the past i would have liked to share a bottle of wine with. i think i genuinely am attracted to the expatriate's circle. escaping debt and canadian flags to take up residence in a hungarian town. avoiding gypsies and making wood stove fires to draw by and make love by. 

david thinks im a romantic. i think you have to be to get by in this world.

 

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