A Summer at The Hotel Gaudi.

Alone on the balcony of my hotel in Barcelona, I spy the fabric of the city and it’s people, as they tie themselves into knots, evoking memories of last summer; of strongest coffee, and too many cigarillos. I only smoke when i’m with you—you’re my kind of cancer. And I only drink to oblivion when you leave, when you go back to...to him...you’re my lazy excuse for cirrhosis of the liver, you see? I betray common sense and I believe your lies, even making excuses for you, when truly, you don’t care. The biggest lies, those destructive like typhoons, you barely whisper. Sweet perennials being: “you do know I love you,” which slip through the window slit of your taxi home; or when you sigh, “I could stay here forever,” from the pillow of my chest. It took a little time, but now I only know you’re lying when your mouth is moving...and...and that’s ok, i’d rather have that than nothing, though I do crucify myself wondering. Wondering, when you’ve gone back, and your head is on his chest, what coffee flavoured lies do you sell to him?
And then I smile, lying to myself as I drink, as I drink, as I drink...