Trips

My trips used to be full of love. Not the actual act itself, but pondering, musings about the very mysterious concept of romance. Like a lookout on a watchtower, I'd observe the thread of love in the stones of every cityscape, in the smiles of passerbys, and the tittilatiing laughs of women with sex appeal little known in my own country. Poetry would invade my mind at every turn like crusaders  to a new cities converted in advance of their arrival.