A thin strip of exposed brick to your left suggests the former life of a sunny crêpe shop. We pen wedding congratulations and prep for wedding celebrations. We taste-test our way through the section of summer I’ll refer to as “pre-France”, croissant-galette-tarte-samiches on back steps in the rain. We play “which corner would you photograph” and I point out the mansard roof to our right. You like the font over Gary’s Drugs. Hydrangea-stamped homes and organic-lined shelves pepper the walls of Beacon Hill, raindrops and creamy petals dot the floors. We reminisce on touching toasts and hip bars with morbid names. I notice floral details and you notice me noticing them. We explore abandoned buildings from the top of the city, stumble upon a cornhole tournament and play a round to the sound of Purple Rain. Hummus summons and we discover Pita. We discuss travel both near and far in the future, and all the while I’m just hoping the future feels a lot like right now.
Tag Archives: beacon hill
when beacon beckons
bricks that track from our toes to the sky
pave sweet grated pathways
those eager vines that rush more than crawl
flood every fiery facade
in a lush twisting green
steeped in history, every crevice speaks
the soothing wordless soliloquy
of gaslit alleys and sun drenched squares
inside ivory tiles surround
eighteen caged white bulbs glow and
baked blonde treats tarte-in and pop over
out on and in corners under churches
electric hand on my cheek
your warmth connects, arrests and protects
hebrew names that start with f
evade the soundtrack of the park
while mosaic half shells made of wood
watch our lazy outdoor naps
fuzzy paintings drinks and walls
follow from the Hill to Hanover
stooped pizza breaks buzz us
-from a Beacon-drunk mind on Monday the 31st of August, 11:42 pm.