Light in a Bar in Krakow

I am sitting on the cobblestones, my head between my knees, drunk. The cold beats down on me from the vast sky which twinkles with a smattering of cold, hard diamonds. The sky is shimmering from the cold.

I stop for a moment to focus. I want to keep this moment. I want to remember the heavy pounding of my heart in my ears, the creaking eaves of old terrace houses lining the street, and the stubborn hum of cars that reminds us other people are alive. No, no, what I really want to remember is this blur to my vision.

I lean back and watch the stars swirl giddily. I reach out and take the hand of a girl wrapped in a tight black fur coat, swinging her around behind me and back. My shoes reflect the light of a thousand lamps, scattered by a thousand pieces of broken glass. The walls are black, or else there aren't any walls, but there are no mirrors. Our feet click on the shiny wood floor, and the noise is loud, in a giant vacuum.

I say to her: I met you, in a bar in Krakow, you were drawing, I was writing, there were candles that made us all feel like children in a dream, and you were drawing me, and I was writing about you, and we looked at each other like we knew how lonely it could be.

And she says: I've never been to Krakow. It wasn't me.

I pull her closer and lean forward, and her perfume fills my head and triggers strong memories of morning. I suddenly feel lonely and we leave, stamping on cigarette butts and pushing drunk and sweaty people aside, dashing for the door, flying down steps that smell of spray-paint and steel, by train to my house.

It is hidden behind tall, yawning elm trees, populated by squirrels and invisible birds, and there is a light glowing in my windows, and she's delighted by the carved pipe on my mantelpiece, and I fall asleep, forgetting to undress.