Writing from The Road
- Charlotte Eriksson
- Dec 24, 2020
- 2 min read
It's nights like these I feel like a kite. On the run from something I can't remember, but still I keep on running, just in case.
They had a room with broken windows. “Out of order,” they told me, then I got it for half the price.
I recall a long sequence of slowly getting closer. Your hands a bit less shy every time. You were scared and unsure and I enjoyed the simple pleasure of watching you figure it all out. I lost the value back then and things like forever don't mean a thing unless you're tied to chains.
Tell me what you want and I'll show you who you are.
The streets were empty as I made my way to the room with broken windows. Only a lonely bartender closing the town, picking up pieces of a youth who never cared to settle. He threw me a glance and a nod, like a small sign of saying “we’re in the same boat,” staying afloat while others pass by, and it was nice. A small gesture to throw some comfort. And now I lie on my back in another temporary bed, hearing sounds from another city through a broken window. I'm recalling words and names, touches slipped like razors on my skin, and they will forever soar. They say you don't know what you’ve got until it's gone, and it might just be the loneliness, eating my insides from afar,
but I will never love you as much as I do when you're gone.
You will never love me as much as you do
when I'm gone.
I never know what I have
until it's gone.
// from my book Another Vagabond Lost To Love
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