by
Emily Nicolaievna
We used to joke that we’d
run away to Europe.
No planning, no goodbyes…
we’d just pick up
a bag and leave,
never to look back.
We’d get small, trifling
jobs as waitresses,
making just enough to get
by.
We’d dance the nights
away,
drinking expensive champagne
and gin and tonic.
We’d sleep till noon,
and read classical literature
of great love and great
loss,
of heroes and villains,
of life and death.
With sun kissed skin,
rosy cheeks,
and red lips,
we’d capture the
hearts of men with a smile
and a laugh.
We’d ride down beaches
on horses:
bare back, hands tangled
in their wild manes.
We’d buy only food
from markets,
living on wine and cheese
and bread.
We’d sing off key
to old love songs,
Frank Sinatra’s voice
crackling through record
players
We’d learn to play
the piano,
and then the guitar,
and later the violin.
We’d cry over sappy
movies,
only watching the ones
in black and white
Casablanca
Charlie Chaplin
Blood and Sand
We’d laugh about
silly things,
about the price of gelato,
of whose picture would
be sketched first,
and who would leave the
tip.
Then frequent museums
and see art made before
our time
that told the history of
the world
of its cities, of its battles…
…of its people…
and if we had money,
we’d go see the symphony,
the opera, an outdoor concert…
We’d swim in the
Mediterranean Sea,
letting the water run over
our bodies
and cleanse our souls.
And then we’d run
into the night
And conquer the day.
I'm
seventeen years old, still
a good couple months from
eighteen, and have lived
in Seattle all my life.
I'm quite the dreamer, head
in the clouds and all that
rubbish, and as a result
probably think far too much.
Writing is my passion and
I hope to live up to the
beauty of the craft
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