at the borrowdale inn

so i lay in the bed at the borrowdale inn
little more than a grand act of rebellion
to a bow-tied, three-course dining room
where the looks of the walls said
you are the wrong kind of tourist
to fit in:
address your waiter as "it"
and garnish sandwiches with crisps

so i lay in the bath at the borrowdale inn
and play finley quaye for the sleeping in
finding new excuses to connect with
old friends recently single
you are the wrong kind of tourist
to stand out:
remove lemon from your diet
and wear tracksuit pants to lunch

so i lay in the bar at the borrowdale inn
awaiting my sudden forced departure
you are the wrong kind of tourist

in search of munros

below your soles the path abruptly ceases to be; its dirt was once stone was once asphalt. beneath you now lies only moss, untouched - and soft to it - but green while not red is still a colour of danger in a world of brown and grey. if you embrace the softness that pulls you in will you accept the prickles, knowing the more your legs graze the harder it will be to return whence you came? or do you pivot backward, finding solace in the dead-end of those who trekked prior and whom the moss saw off long ago?

the brook may be plentiful, but it provides little company.

ocean eyes

now convinced you could be the type of man who wears skinny jeans diluted in burnt charcoal, pull on your faux-fur jacket and ensure it looks generous. adjust your sunglasses and go well into new lights, into a city defined by cracked concrete and fading façades. look for home in new faces and grasp longingly onto new life.

grab onto me.
run with me into the night.