The sky was paler
than the cheek of a melancholy romantic.
The streaks of the melting snow
bulged like veins on the lonely rooftops.
There was something about the view that was quite enchanting.
reciting “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,”
smoking Marlboro Lights
and admiring the spiraling smoke.
The morning was wonderful and I couldn’t put my finger on it,
but it seemed out of the ordinary,
as if I awoke
to find out existence had meaning,
and I stumbled upon it.
No, it had nothing to do with either of us.
This wasn’t the point.
It was more about scattered rhymes and iambic pentameter.
As a whole,
existence resembled a well-written poem
and I picked up its rhythm on the cobble-stone avenue.
before my eyes,
the city of Boston turned into a living being.
resembled the reaching tentacles of an octopus.
Crowds of people were walking outside
unaware of the fact
that the Charles was breathing.
I overheard its monotone whispers and its words were fabulous.
I stood, thunderstruck and short of breath...
and life was dazzling.
Suddenly, it dawned on me that today and yesterday
in no way differed.
I was always too busy, rushing somewhere and hustling.
Life fell in love with me,
I've managed to stay indifferent...
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