Hand in hand along the promenade, we walk without talking, but there’s no need to break the silence. Idle chit-chat just won’t do. No words at all will do because the feelings we share in just one glance says everything that needs to be said. Nothing more, nothing less. There’s no drink in me tonight, but the feel of your sweaty palm in mine makes me drunk and giddy and every second spent by your side makes me want you that much more. Don’t get me wrong, this ain’t romance, this is just me being whimsical. So we carry on with our stroll until it gets dark, and then we decide to head back home with our aching bones and worn out shoes. When you shower after sex, you come sit on the bed and let me paint your toenails. The act of being so precise frustrates, and yet the intimacy between us helps remind me that I’m not lost, that despite the darkness in my heart, I can be tender. I can be for real. Down by the lake, there were swans that came to us for food, but they were fresh out of luck. We stood for a while. No words, just linked fingers and sighs. Just a feeling shared between two lovers who claimed not to be lovers when clearly they were. As the wind kicked up around us, I knew that I was getting old, and despite your youthful beauty, so were you. In the grand scheme of things, we’ll be dead in no time at all, and yet even though what we have is so difficult and convoluted, and that the end will get us whether we like it or not, what we have shines so brightly that it makes me want this more than I ever thought possible.