Hello old friend,
You hold my past heartache, my previous joy.
I stomp up and down the hills knowing full well that I’ll never
get over you entirely.
You are my home I created for myself, no strings attached, now tied to my soul like a dead weight.
I love you but I hate you.
Your cider hurts my stomach but it’s light on my tongue and I want to dance the night away and stumble up Whiteladies in a toga.
I want to eat humous on the rooftops and drink tea on the pavement, watching the sky as balloons dot above the bridge, suspended.
The cafes hold the scrawls of my pen, the furious taps on my keyboard, the conversations that hurt me, healed me and spurred me on.
I’ll clothe myself in the mismatched, charity of Gloucester Road, dipping my hands in barrels of health food, scooping away the sorrow and the stress and reminding myself that life is good.
Protest is healthy, graffiti is art.
Icelandic girl bands, vegan crushes, cats in pubs and hot tubs on balconies, cycling in the rain, breathing in the mist on the downs, all attempts of leaving are in vain
because I’m always coming back
to the green seats of the old vic and the cobbled streets of St Nick’s,
to the reds of Redland and the cliffs of Clifton
aways returning for a new chapter of our story.
The company is ever changing but the light on the buildings stays the same, that rosy pink, Bristol glow, that Harbourside water shimmer that lets us know that we are made for each other, we belong together.