I watched her, silhouetted black and white, against the dim light, the light from the windows, the light from a city busy with fantasies and fruition (or not. A city busy with delayed ambitions and withering hopes). Her back is turned to me, smooth and curved, all the way down to her hips. Maddening hips. Beautiful hips. I mould myself against her, tracing her body with mine, she moves with me. Perfect alignment. I smell her, I take in her intoxicating essence. I will never get enough of her, until she ravishes me to death. Her every breath is a new awakening for me. I want her. I want her now. As her fingers trace my jaw, my mind traces a future when she will not be present. Near unfathomable. Near.

Her love is a grey shade of what I know it could be. I glimpse at it from time; roaring, bursting out of her. I will it to burn me. All I feel is a pulsating warmth beneath the smoke and the ashes of my then fantasies, now reality. Set in mist, I ever seem to search for her, slightly up ahead, yet still too far. I love this dance but I tire of it, the flirtations of a heartbreak, or a love-supreme. Kiss me or kill me. Outlined, she is a pencil drawing on my heart’s conscience and I fail to find the colours to paint her permanently there with. So I protect these memories, jealously, and milk every moment we ever spent of meaning, that it was something more than just a fun weekend.

As nightmares of future loss awoke me, we stood out in the cold, naked save for a blanket. She held me close, behind me, ever the shadow. Hot. Soothing. Cooing. “No one is dying tonight.”, she said. Someone is already dead, love. Dead in your arms, dead at your feet. Come die with me. Let us be done with this tepid world. And everything seemed tepid then, in the thrall of ecstasy, in the heat of the heat of it. Young love, silly love. Goodbye, love. Hello, love. Is this what you look like?


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