“Le paradis est toujours ailleurs.” — Charles Baudelaire

Milan, late spring.

The heat settles early this year.

The city empties before summer begins.

I think of the ocean.

The taste of something I haven’t reached yet.

Memories of a life i’ve never lived. 

Time moves slow.

 Nights stretch longer.

The best ones lose their minds.

And as the city empties,

I begin to mistake longing for destiny.