Left Hand Taco

I was the traveler who had always been drawn to the horizon, and you are the city I promised to return to. Sydney, a city that has never learned to stand still. It was always moonlit and forever restless.

But you know that I am, Melbourne, a city you grow into rather than simply pass through. It was always stormy, yet it always remains steady.

You lied to me. You fucking swore that you were ready for the cold weather and you even mentioned you’d pack light. But, I alreay knew you didn’t like carrying your bag. You did not like enduring the cold. You did not like my storms.

You were the hunger I never knew how to satisfy. You were always looking for something more. A person who is always craving for something spicier. But at that moment, I already realized I was just a taco in your left hand, forgotten, especially since you hated using that hand. I was left there in one of the Mexican restaurants at sunset in front of Bondi Beach, spilling over, too much, half-eaten, and will never be enough.