The View From Up Here

I’ve never seen the Seine in the rain
Or danced in crowds of untranslatable delight.
Roman sunrises haven’t kissed my cheeks on lazy sleepless mornings
After drinking all through the night.

I try to fall in love with the portrait that hangs in my bedroom,
A cityscape under a golden blanket draped haphazardly.
Careful not to touch, or get too close
To be crushed under its visionary empire.

But I was born with bones that stretched my skin,
And dreams that sunk my heart.
Just like my mother and hers before
Who never confessed but quietly craved more.

But one day I will walk,
Head straight, never turning back
Lest the memories of the underworld
Lure me back to its gate.

I will walk barefoot down cobbled streets
Where the cigarette stubs that stab my soles
Have kissed the mouths of poets,
Have nestled in the crooks reserved for brushes
And fountain pens.

And I will walk until, just once, I finally turn,
But turning once I turn again
And see my footprints circle to a point
Where sky meets snow and snow meets sky.
And I will walk higher still.
What’s cloud or snow will carry me
Where I never dreamed I could go.

Drifting through a gallery of stars
I can see it now, in all its entirety.
No longer must my bones ache in taut sacs.
Here, I am weightless,
Watching mountains, cathedrals and alleyways.
They were all made for me.
So far, so far,
Far enough not to crumble under my touch.

_{Emily Adams, 21, England.}