"Romantics" by Emily Higginbotham
At night we walk the vacant streets of Cork
tipsy from the whiskey as we stumble
intertwining shadows of our fingers
and our shy lips, slowly falling deeper.
Leaning against a rail by the river,
you mumble, “What a cliché”: to be young,
in love, and living in a foreign place
but still at home in your warmest embrace.
‘Let’s be romantics!’ I belt out wryly.
Howling at the starry yellow heavens
you pull me in to you and say
‘With you, my love, there is no other way.’
At night we walk the vacant streets of Cork
tipsy from the whiskey as we stumble
intertwining shadows of our fingers
and our shy lips, slowly falling deeper.
Leaning against a rail by the river,
you mumble, “What a cliché”: to be young,
in love, and living in a foreign place
but still at home in your warmest embrace.
‘Let’s be romantics!’ I belt out wryly.
Howling at the starry yellow heavens
you pull me in to you and say
‘With you, my love, there is no other way.’