An American in London

I like to think I'd be a part of Hemingway and Fitzgerald's posse.

Month: October, 2013

Age.

Girls

giggling in their

short

skirts

followed by

the eyes

of a hundred

old men

whose sad,

lonely gazes

linger

on legs

whose heart

belongs to someone

else.

Hungry

and tired

and forgotten,

they stare.

Youth

a memory.

Time

an enemy.

Advertisements

Rain on London.

The shallow streets,

cold

and long,

cave in around

my aching feet.

My muscles,

sore and lonely,

strain

against the angry

pavement.

Through piles

of slosh

and slop.

Leaves heavy

with rain

stick to me,

mock me,

weigh me down

like a throbbing

head filled with

thoughts

too much

to think.

Step.

Step.

Crunch.

Splash.

Throb.

A long day

leading to

a long night.

Home to a lonely

flat

which sighs

a drooping breath

as I enter.