They tell us stories of how Rome was built on ruins but we still sit under the moon and chain smoke because what they don’t know is we’ve got royalty in our blood.
They say Paris is for lovers so I put bows in my hair and drink too much wine and later that night I’ll threaten to climb the Eiffel tower and you’ll tell me about what the sky tastes like.
In Cairo you were the beloved pharaoh and I was just the girl you bumped into at the street market and we made eyes for two seconds and it was the closest to heaven we ever got but to everyone else it looked like treason.
I tell you that if you ever take me to Venice, I’ll drown myself in the water because I’ll never feel that pure again. You remind me that I can make every place I venture to my home and that I’m holier than the sky.
In Tokyo I stretch myself wide and try to make myself taller than the buildings, become more than the skyline. You tell me you can see the sun rising over the horizon in my eyes.
In Berlin we adopt new personas and I speak German brokenly, and you speak it like it’s your split tongue. We hide out in sketchy bars and you watch me spin under red lights and you pull me close and whisper, all das, könnte uns gehören, this can all be ours.
In London I shake under the weight of the rain and I avoid puddles because of superstition and on our last day you open the umbrella indoors and I tell you that you’ve done it now, jinxed us all the way back home.
Back home we count tumbleweeds instead of dandelions and I tell you that the strawberry plants won’t ever make it through the summer. You tell me about the bottle of rainwater you saved from London. About the broken light bulb from Berlin. The cat-eye marble from Tokyo. The snapshot of Venice. The sand from Cairo. The mini Eiffel tower key chain. The postcard from Rome.
You remind me that we can make every place we venture to our home.
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