My life has become wilted rose petals
and rusty wrought iron staircases
leading a long way to nowhere, nothing, and no one

I have let go of everything
like a flock of rowdy doves, released it all
want, love, and desire
discretion, prejudice, and hate
Any language I might have known is suddenly gone
I am left with only a little lust
and a burning need not to be alone

By the end of the night, wrapped up in smoke and cold
I am not alone, but caught up in a crowd of drunken Spaniards
and one English girl who is lost and illiterate, unloved and alone

Past the long walk home, past the chips that fail to stop our voices
past their bad English and my bad Spanish
we are locked up tight
seven hot bodies in one small room
where they sing of the sea and they sing of the moon
like a choir of off-key angels
I lay there and listen
eyes shut
ears wide open
heart caught up like a dog on a short leash
trying to remember how to sleep
among the lonely and the mad
without becoming one
or losing it to the other

Finally I give it all up and dream
Spanish slipping out of my throat
and into my head
though I still don't understand it
but by then
I am far too tired to care

AcB 05.16.01