I want to dream of French cafes

and smoke rings

Floating forever in this ether,

a purgatory of ivy-covered walls

and statues.

people that look like art.

and art that looks like people.

I thought up a poem but I never wrote it down

I do that when I'm sad

Sad amongst all things is less an emotion,

more a particular direction of your very being.

Sad is a way of life.

I want to dream of vintage record shops,

and bookstores

Wood walls ridden with termites,

dripping with dazzled eyes and dust

Little safe places that don't belong to you.

Open your eyes,

stare at the people that look like art from afar

but do it discretely,

they don't need to know your 
jealous admiration for them.

Tonight,

I want to dream of French cafes,

and smoke rings.

-SB