There are roses on the coffee table, right next to the empty bottle of wine. The entire room is motionless while it gets progressively darker and the sound of outside life eats away at me slowly. There has been a nagging tug that has taken shape in words and colors and scents; no clear melody or rhythm to it.
It's probably the weather, maybe even the lower dosage of stimulants.
Or it could be the bull. The bull who will begin to migrate in the days to come.
The bull with his furious passion and aggressive lips that taste of whiskey.
The same bull that led me up a twenty-story building and pushed me off. The one who charged full force onto another chase while I still lay half naked on cold concrete. The bull who smells like a sweet summer night when laying next to you.
The past is always romanticized; more often than not, reminisced.
There were plenty of intoxicated nights to last a lifetime and plenty of half remembered words that were spit in front of cabs and doorways. The city bridges were witness to too much and my heart to not enough. There will be a form of closure in this migration, though not certain for who.
The rain will continue to pour and the sun will continue to kiss my skin.
Nothing and all will be remembered because nothing and all is still mine.
Rest assured, the bull will still roam.
With me, or without me.
