I’ve never been to Paris.
I’ve never been to Milan.
But I wrote the maps for the trenches.
The scums of the Earth have told me their stories.
Stories of defeat. Stories of revenge.
Lost wives. Abandoned babies. Wrecked homes. Beaten cars. Molded clothes.
I just want to go to Paris.
I just want to go to Milan.
But the trenches.. they won’t let me go.
I am theirs. But what is unseen is that they are not mine.
I wrote the maps. Me.
I will see Paris.
I will see Milan.
People say “when seasons change” but in reality, they don’t.
January is never humid. July has never seen a coat.
Seasons change and time flies but that’s all inauthentic.
They are always the same. Either/or.
But my perception.
My immensity. It changes.
It changes like the trends.
Who I love.
How I love.
They’re never the same.