Page 1, When you see someone on a train, a tube, in the street, wherever and something about them just grabs your attention and fascinates you...that\'s what this is about for me - people watching. When you make up crazy stories about their life from a tiny detail, the narrator clearly has a wild imagination but no confidence to actually talk.
I\'d love to hear your interpretations and criticisms! Thanks for reading.
He sits across from you in your ballet shoes, his feet tap, the carriage shakes
A shopping bag in his hand - red wine and a meal for two
His hair falling gracefully, just like he hadn’t tried at all
Eyes like almonds, deep and dark. An eternity buried right beside
That smile. Or a smirk? Witty, eloquent without words
He could kill you with just a glance, a flash of that mysterious grin
His skin shimmers in the golden glow, a Spanish sailor lost inland
You’re wondering; does his breath go steamy on Parisian nights?
Does he have a lover? Does he miss her? What’s her name?
How long has he been travelling? Where’s he going now?
Is disappearing a lifestyle for him as well?
You’re staring right through him, losing yourself in his imaginary life...
He wraps up warm on those frozen nights; scarf, beret, woollen coat
His breath turning to misty smoke under the bright lights of Paris
The mist spirals in fantasy patterns, a dragon playing with emotions
She saw him across the bridge one December night, drawing her like artists do
Thought he was smoking, she asked him for a light
Her name was Marie; she had auburn hair that curled like a fire
She left him in June for a violinist busker, only because he never told her
He loved her. He didn’t have the courage, he misses the scent
Of her hair in the morning, how she’d hang his paintings in her flat
And her lyrical laughter as they walked hand in hand
Through crunchy crimson leaves in Buttes-Chaumont
How they’d fall asleep with the window wide open
And synchronise their breathing without saying a word
She left a note; “Je suis désolée, je t’aime” on that day in June
And he ran away with a backpack of memories and €100 to his name
He’s been running ever since, he ran to Vienna at first
Beautiful women, and beautiful men, seemed to take away his pain
He travelled the seven seas, craving the addiction of anonymity
Only a city could give him, and the love he could only pay for
He’s come back to Paris, take the metro to the end of the line
He’s heading off for London in the morning, one last night to dream by the Seine
London’s where I’m going too, to sell my sketches of love to French tourists
He’s staring through me into the ocean-like void, I know he wouldn’t care
The train's jarring to a halt, as does my temporary infatuation, or fantasy
Whichever, it doesn’t matter. Just as a dove would signal peace, it remains
Unimportant and lost in a head full of worries – but he’s looking so closely
Into the glass behind me I expect.
© Copyright 2014Eilidh Hart All rights reserved. Eilidh Hart has granted theNextBigWriter, LLC non-exclusive rights to display this work on Booksie.com.