Sitting in a dream like delicacy, late night dining and tired eyes, so quiet and erased. The cold evening chill and the dark skies upon, I see you through the glass.
The naked orange, what one says so, or the naked yellow – what is the latter when you greet with hello?
Dear London you love him. Dear London he adored you, he still does. The great escape of a dream tendency forever coming true. Smart and beautifully presented, holding a stare and smiling.
Hipster shapes and waist coated warmth is the time, the theme, as the radio fulfils the air of the dynamic bird garden. Eastern warmth and herbal glass jars, tea and sweet leaves dressing the room with a promise to never break.
Its a lonely place for one, but for two I would say fine. Night busses in an attempt to get home feels like a million miles. The fear and the thought through teared eyes result to a blurred yellow vision of the number 35 bus. There’s a chill in the air.
A place to work, a place to live or a place to feel the warmth. The juniper berries are growing, sprouting at an instant yet I’m running behind the vastly moving vehicle. So close but still out of reach I cant stop now. The city is calling and the smoke is filling the lungs. The fresh air on the other side. Sitting at the table with a tea for two. I know you’ve never adapted to the quaint taste of roasted arabica.