Grey Suit Black Tie

Algeciras

I miss dirty Algeciras, as the lone soul walking winter streets, everyone locked up in homes, hidden from the echoes of the water flown to the borders, pleading to tear them down and asking to see the beaches; no beaches, just docks for Moroccans to crawl up with packs on their backs, shilling their wares, spreading them out over Europe as I try to shield them from the sky, their grey mists fleeing from the water, keeping the shadows from forming on the ground.

We write the water because it’s always changing.