do the photographs i've taken make me look blind?

it's knowing i might not figure myself out with my heart strung across the globe.

but liking & loving all the same:

the way spain sounds so separate from the hardscrabble mango town poured into the sweat of my navy bandana. (the side of hispanola that didn't shake.)

the way the windmills look from moving windows;

the ones where sunlight tickles my skin through panes as cold as ice & the sounds in my head remind me of my j's and l's and t's. especially when hallelujah resonated through all the spirals in mis orejas you described the time when things almost became complicated. grey skies were never so beautiful.

el jardin de las delicias & guernica & the death of murat & las meninas & the third of may & descent from the cross.

the green skies of van gogh and too many gauguins for me to handle at once.

and did you know they still say fish is expensive? because i didn't and was yelled at for filming these things.

almost missing the train to toledo, where el greco was birthed and birthed all those repetitive ghostly faces that float on choking frills. all the buildings the color of summer sand, where even the rust on the shingles caught my eye through the lens.

fast forward.

sick like the two times in north georgia, plus my nose dripping into purple & hands on my back that make me fall too hard again. when will i ever say no to falling?

cordoba & sevilla & granada.

arches of red and white and so many intricacies in these magnificent places, when people had the patience to create for hundreds of years on end. mixing religions & styles i used to not like.

planet nabu, wide avenidas, silhouettes in carved windows and children more excited to see feathers in the water.

taps at the bar and really, too many tapas: oh yes, ain't that fresh? and shower water bleeding onto the floor.

the way i loved bruxelles,

even when the train stopped because of an accident involving a person; and how that sent chills into my bones more than cold curdling blood when we thought we'd freeze. disappearing compositions: silver and white.

the way cocoa powder wouldn't let go of the corners of my lips

grime across the table tops and dungeon corners:

la porte noir & la fleur en papier dore. ours.

really, it was all innocent.

when waking up not alone feels too alone but tastes from home fix these things.

i'm not even sure who i miss anymore.