My boots on these cobbled streets,Pressed hard against stone betweenThe little crisscrossed valleys,Each narrowing towards a center,Displaying some famed socialist revolutionary. Before here in these Sofian squares,It was there in that veined Scottish city,All hills and vanishing Christian temples.Both landscapesCovered in snow.When I saw you here,So suddenly, an apparition,Eating the images of women’s bodies,Paper flesh pictured in magazines,Displaying yourself, bra burning...[…]Edinburgh’s tight hidden streets twist,Climbing closes under each other,Rough-hewn stone curved senseless,Wild and unplanned, a kind of ecstasy.Our hands also pressed, climbing under...There is a joy on my skin.Here, Balkan city. My fingers to the winter canopy.But the streets once closed and wound,Are forced open. Straight, unforgiving.Ghost of Serdica these two impossible maps.[…]We hide our hearts here,Choking our desires,Extinguish their drummingIn the snow which never ceases falling. Photo by Roan Lavery on Unsplash