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London II

A peace of mind renounces my sense of rally on a regular Saturday morning. Nine o'clock. At the On store. A pair of tennis shoes. I see a lady, ethereal,  bouncing back from an appeal. An exchange of superiorities oil-paint my white agenda in turquoise prisms. The clothing section features the colors of Benetton, a palette I have been obsessed with since 2008. Basilico and biscotti brunch, my flattery of your invitation. A selfie. Eyes closed—cute—but your blush doesn't lie about your reaction when you grabbed my hand at the retro party. You send me a line of wisdom at 9:44 am.

Messy colors and the coincidences on my canvas are the plexicushions that carried us into the arenas.

The late nights and the early mornings, 

We uncovered the lies inside five setters,

Only to make camp on the hard courts for seven hours.

How about we build another one there in London?

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