Palabras

7 Aug

I remember. I remember the bricks on those streets. The early morning “buenas” as I made my way to the metro. I remember the smells, the way a Sunday morning smelled like a hungover lover but a Saturday night! A Saturday night was like a stranger you never wanted to leave. I remember the storefronts, and the construction workers. I remember the mustachioed camarero who called me “rubia peligrosa” with a smile on his face. I remember the sunlight in Puerta del Sol and how dirty my feet would be by the end of the day from walking tirelessly around that beautiful city. That place that was my world, the thing that keep me going. The pulse of that place. La energia. I remember the crowds for the cine. And the sea of people and things of the rostro. I remember smoking cigarettes and drinking mojitos and red wine until I was blind. I remember the laughter and the tears that weave the tapestry of that time in my life. Echo de menos, Madrid.

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