More of life should be this:
breathing in bell chimes and parakeet caws,
gaze lost among a sea of unfamiliar roofs,
heels clicking on cobbled history
beneath late October sunshine
that would put our June to shame.
More of life should be this:
no jobs to be done or errands to run,
just these winding streets and
their beckoning adventures,
head tipped ever skywards,
scenery searing itself onto memory.
More of life should be this:
fingertips brushing ancient stone
steeped in the stories of centuries,
submersion in a culture
as warm as a July noon,
a set of bellows for the bloodstream.
More of life should be this:
pushing back the bounds of our horizons,
answering the calls within ourselves,
ticking our own boxes instead of other people’s,
grafting reality onto expectation
of cherished, decade-old dreams.
