Katia Porro is
an arts writer,
curator
and
translator.

i never thought i’d miss the smell of the city
like i miss the smell of your sweat
textures have become more fragrant
like the patterns across the carpet that make maps in the space
the red square is lava and the grey one is safe
but there are red flags popping up
everywhere
like snake eyes and eight balls
and suddenly safety seems impossible
if not boring
on the 12th floor of uncertainty
running into strangers i once knew
and strangers you know
as broken elevators cause chaos in the corridor
climbing up emergency stairs calmly
approaching doors with no handles
feeling stuck without panicking
because everything has led me to
the 15th floor
where plants are living and dying
and i guess the best love stories
are the ones that have endings
like viruses and vaccines
and a total wash is on the street below
looking back at me as if to say
only water can clean this year of
precarious shit
like a baptism
or a funeral
on live stream
and a stream
like a river
a river of words that is uncontrollable
and overflowing
waves that are crashing into this city that is at once
calming and anxiety ridden
chaotic and peaceful
and the shouting in the streets hums to the rhythm of my
broken shoes that are clic clacking as I stomp down the street
stumble rather
and end up on the top floor
where creepy cults are forming
in solidarity against the men who constructed
this building
and the construction noises make the sound of
gentrification unbearable
as the tour eiffel glistens in the distance
like the sea my gaze got lost in for
two months
as my skin turned to salt
and my taste buds could only recognise things
like the bitterness of blurry pictures
or the perfect outline of an ex lover
and the remnants of their textures
but their scent and their taste
are now a mystery
and no matter how hard I shut my eyes
searching for the sweetness of an appetite
everything remains tasteless
like the rows of hausmanian buildings
staring at me through the window
hiding behind the jungle that we construct
on the inside looking out
as if boundaries between the interior and exterior
can transport us
or give us shelter
when really we need the outside to feel alive
i need the outside to feel alive
to thrive on the cruelty
in the belly of the beast
that the scars on my knees bear witness to
and the insides are suffocating at times
like smoke filled rooms where sickness sprawls
unless
you are like a cloud
floating for fifteen days
with a stranger that shape shifts before you
as you unlock their secrets
like using left over pistachio shells
to pry open their introverted friends
with shakey hands and sweaty palms
crooked lines in confined comfort
in dreams where spaces melt together
and when the bustle in the street below shakes your slumber
you no longer know where you are
as the train drags you away
backwards
and the cloud disperses
and becomes a mystery again
and the water has evaporated in the heat of late summer
but the humidity lingers
because september has come
and we sleep with the windows closed again
in separate spaces