There’s something intangible,
tasty, satisfying but just out of
London on a Spring morning, a scent of carnival and warm drinks in the park,
a melting pot of cultures and promises, somebody
an open minded identity that sits peaceful in the thrill of it all, drowning in nostalgia and the smell of Brixton in May.
A longing for a rooftop soiree, somewhere to swim naked,
an underground party with music that swallows you.
Dirt under my fingernails, smog in my lungs
nostalgia for a place I’ve never reached sparks fire in my belly
as I step off the platform into London’s bittersweet