"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>tied to a night we never met

>the marionettes dance as the astronomical clock in the heart of prague strikes 9.

the rain closes the distance between joe and i.

a quick amaretto sour on a heated patio, then we roll up our hoodies, disappear into the night. the charles bridge has quieted down from the electric-tourist-circus of the day. we leap over puddles yet contemplate jumping over the side. to body-boomerang. to envelope ourselves in quiet blue.

it’s only been three days apart, we remind ourselves, but krakow feels like a gauzed memory. warsaw, a yellowed page.

wander near the franz kafka museum, ducking in and out of doorways, the drizzle infecting us like a pathogen. giggle near a pair of statuesque men, their phalluses like fountains. rotating unnaturally, and us without our cameras.

find a sheltered stoop under a closed restaurant awning. legs intertwined. fingers woven through hair. pupils dilated, mental photography.

there is another world waiting between our bodies. a planet within a kiss.

pleasure and torture, sewn with the same thread. the joy of being together, the pain of living in real time again, a clock without marionettes laughing at us.

dance across the bridge once more, polka music raging from a central pub. scatter through the maze and narrowness of prague’s secretive streets.

if these cobblestones could talk.

some day everyone in prague will be out in the streets, rain-soaked, and feeling like me.

hole up in the quiet stairwell of my hostel. his lips are on my legs. 1:00 a.m. echoes like a bad joke.

in the morning, i bite my lip as my train departs for bratislava.

2 more days apart.

but his feet are pointed in my direction.

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