(paragraph)

[inthestyleofamylyons]

YOU must be Francesca.

After you began haunting this neighbourhood, I asked around, I found your name discarded in the streets beneath the arching blues of the sky. Francesca it echoes between the walls that don’t know you any better than I do, you are a stranger to them. You are dewy fresh and new, at every step across the uneven stones of the alleyway floor your skirt trembles, also in blues. And it is pleated, it falls to your knees. The boys throw their eyes at you, they fall before your feet. The boys and their eyes. I’m pausing at the flower seller’s stand, I stay upright by grabbing on to a promise of armfuls of sunset-coloured roses, later they will adorn my bedroom’s windowsill, they will deck my kitchen, my living room, they will dress wherever I happen to be. I imagine you’d be a greater decoration, but I remain standing, because we are each other’s unknown quantities. As you move past me and additionally in dance, you comment on my flowers, but I’ve forgotten whether they were words of praise. You are dewy fresh and new, at every step across the uneven stones of the alleyway floor your skirt trembles and soon after, you are gone.

(from Greyish Bluish)