1/17/11

My pseudonym fending off inquiry, landscape littered with people who think they know me, but alas, she appears to have no past. Settling into relative quietness, antique wall clock ticks off seconds, as organization of words meet sentences and I cross over into that writer's habitat.

 In a quaint cafe' in Venice, the way he looks, watches me. Structured face, expressive mouth, and his lips, so eloquent. My eyes troll him with roaming interest, shouldered beside him, existing in two vastly different worlds, yet springs of similar coil drive both our need. Speaking seems so superfluous, as we trail in silence, and the warmth of my own blood takes me by surprise. The world suddenly, gradually, detaches from the norm.