An Aquired Taste

"You're an aquired taste," he slipped in casually. As with all matters of the heart, a little too casually.

I have always avoided that word, "aquired," as though it covers all manner of sin. Aquired friends, aquired taste, an aquired affinity for the unknown which makes me string my heart across bustling cafe-lined streets, and the tiny space between head and heart where even the best forget to breathe. For all the people who have lined my streets with their hot cinnamon buns drenched in icing-sugar, buying their cheap souviners from the local trade stalls, none have stopped to listen to the subtle sounds. The quiet that resonates in the cracks of the walls and the cobblestone pavings that hold it together. Some have grown to love the taste of lust as they sip Chardonnay on the banks of my heart, chatting in stark animation of worlds that exist beyond my horizons. Others are waiting. Waiting for the right time of day, the right light; Perhaps the right way to look at me, the right way to fully appreciate the crispness of my air and the intensity with which I colour my world.

It's ironic. I pride myself on the openness of my heart, and the free assosciation with which its' residents carry out their daily lives. There are no price tickets hanging in shop windows, no sale signs, no menu's, no servants, no cheap wine in cardboard boxes. No competition. People grow to love this place with it's little chalets, its singing birds and shaded side-walks. Ironic that this is my downfall. Maybe I let them all in in the hope that one day, just once, someone will walk through my gates and call me home, without needing to aquire a taste for the quiet sounds in the cracks of my walls, or the intense hues with which I paint my world.