a truth or not

the rain

chased

me of the plain

into a coffee shop

I haste

our eyes met

across

the counter

the aisle

against the wall

you made me

your all

till

this day

I can’t remember

your name…

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Waiting

too tired

to flight

or

fight

I’ll just sit here

sipping wine

and wait

for fate

racing memories

Washing my Jaguar late on a Sunday afternoon, suddenly brought back memories of a very young me.

My dad was a racer, and weekends we spend at the track. I remember the smell of burning oil, burning tyres, exhaust fumes and dust, in the summer heat, like yesterday.

Sometimes the wives would come with, but i was the only little girl allowed on the track, in the cars and in the garage.

On Sunday afternoons, as the sun kiss, the the day goodnight, it was time to was the cars.

I was allowed to wash the roofs, cause, I was small enough, not to dent the cars, while climbing all over them.

I also remember, Rothmans cigarette buds and half empty Lion beer cans. My dog, a cross between a Saint Bernard and a Husky, and I, would roam the track, smoking buds and emptying the beer cans. Sometimes we would see, wild love making (I thought it was wresteling and I could not understand why women, screamed, and nobody, came to her rescue).

My dad drove a Volvo and a beetle (my love for Herbie, comes from here). Sometimes he would won, sometimes he would crash and sometimes he would loose

But the smell of Rothmans, Lion Lager, dust, oil, tyres and summer will also remains in my heart, fondly.