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Forget my face. I belong in London. Forget my name and take this as goodbye. No, I will not put a fight, my will for living has died. I've been living a lie. I am a lie. I'm trite and cheap. I have five dollars and a couple coins with me. If I continue living a lie, then I might as well be paralyzed. Lies are truths never born. So when I board the plane take it as my rebirth. A twelve hour flight in the womb over lonely seas and if by chance this plane was to go down I'd curl up in my polyester seat and turn as white as a premature baby. But if luck goes my way I'll be delivered safely into England as healthy as a new born baby boy.
The airport's bustling and my feet are moving faster than I'm thinking. Through heavy metal doors I step into the streets slick with rain. As I smell the cool air, my lungs transpire London. With each sense intruiged I'm reborn and anxious for what comes next. I'm as healthy as I've ever been, I'm alive as Las Vegas night-life and it's only ten AM. Alone I walk down a road with green scenery. A sky so plain and trees so green. Arriving at the house I took for rent I've realized I'll never miss my bed. Too many nights it's caught my tears and it's caving in from memories of you and me. A new bed will provide new comfort in a new city I'd like to call my home. Out in town I'm not a forienger, I'm like a local and I'm more light hearted than I've ever felt.
It's been six months and I've seen Big Ben and I sat upon the London Eye where I met this beautiful boy. He was gentle as he told me his name and he took a seat next to me. On our 4th time revolving over the sea he'd asked me out for coffee. This boy was clever. As we reached our 3rd cup of coffee we sat and learned about eachother. As time when on each coffee kept us awake and we sat until the early morning talking about English history. The Virgin Queen was recognized and pilgrimage was condoned. We went through all of Shakespeares plays and recited our favorite lines.
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"Forget My Face." 123HelpMe.com. 19 Feb 2020
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Hyperboles in early English poems aren't hard to find, and I realized I had said one when I thought to myself "This boy is the best I've met in my lifetime, his eyes more mysterious than a New Mexico night sky." Pastoral poems are what come to mind when I imagine us together in a room full of white. Laying in the middle of an English meadow full of dasies with a blue 9 pm summer sky.
So as I continued to celebrate my rennisance I shed all of the past people I have been and feel brand new and reinvented. I feel like my skin was painted by Da Vinnci, and as powerful as Queen Elizabeth. I love this city and I love Westminster Abbey. Something in the way I felt in the Poet's Corner made me feel at ease and best of all that beautiful British boy was with me. With his accent so deep he asked me if I'd like to come home with him.
The cafe was closed and so we walked up the London streets, nothing ever seemed so brand new to me. It wasn't late it was only half past seven and he took my hand as he guided me in. This boy was so unbelievable, the most literate and deep of all the boys I've met. He had eyes as deep as English meadows with eyes that electrified the night sky. He was rather pale and porportionally thin. He reached about six feet and walked with eloquence. His face was soft and his lips were full. His dark messy hair was soft and cut at an angle. It framed his pale face and kept his smile on display. This boy was divine and and best of all he liked me. His voice was strong but not as deep and his kiss was warm and spoke of a million heartbreaks.
The door to his apartment was open and he lead me up to the roof. It was a brisk, cool night and at the top of the staircase we were on top of the most unbelievable city. He held me close and kept me from getting too chilly and all the while the lights and the sea were glistening. The beautiful city looked so intricate and yet I've felt more simple than I've ever been. What an amazing sight for one's eyes to behold. I came here knowning nothing and no one and I was more lonely at home.
It's been a year now and I've settled in quite well and now I'm at my kitchen table writing letters to send back to the states. They explain the weather and the landmarks. They explain the history I've learned and the boy I've met and the friends I've made. It explains the beauty and how I'm never returning. So as I scribble with my black pen I write about how I hope for our paths to cross again. My life is new and fresh and rebound. I'm living in my utopia with my feet on the ground.
So as I come to the end of each letter I write down the receiving address and then I put down the sender:
"From London, England with love."