The Capitals

Photo courtesy of Ka Man Mak


By the time we have come to the mid-end of this underground shelter, it will ultimately reflect who we truly are. In handcuffed, we carefully put on our headphone, be sure to single-out the most heartfelt soundtrack that later will become our emotional anthem.

“My literary route shall begin in Reykjavik.” I say.

You sigh. “I wish to embrace The Bund instead.”

“We have to visit Seville Cathedral.”

“Perhaps, our daughter should name after the capital of Bulgaria.” You say.

“Then I hope she can sing like Christine Daaé.”

“And we shall spend an unforgettable night in the Museo Frida Kahlo.”

I see Burj Khalifa in your eyes, sailing across the Venice of the East. You then cracked a joke about the City of Manmade Romance. My index finger draws a rainbow over your unstoppable laughter when I compare your face to a Matryoshka.

Suddenly, your breath’s upon my cheek when my attention is given to the arrow pointing towards Amsterdam.

“Close your eyes and imagine Santa Monica.”

“But the capitals we were born in are missing.” I say.

“The curator must be jealous of us.”

We kiss and camouflage into the kaleidoscope of delusion.

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