The light on your face, and the light on mine. The trees that reach for us and the positions we find ourselves in while drunk and flowered up and ready for something to happen. I miss the feel of your ankles in my hands, and I miss holding your breasts while we spoon in the witching hours. I miss the taste of your mouth and how it reminds me of bubblegum and of leaves and roast dinners on Sunday afternoons where time never meant a thing. These memories of you make me feel like a child playing in his parents’ garden not fearful of what there is to lose by staying away from others. But how time ticks away, though. How it drags me down. Writing helps to alleviate the pain. These words, they take me to so many strange and wonderful places where I come alive, and yet the warmth of your embrace is one thing I’ve never been able to replicate. As I muse over your image, somewhere in London, there’s another attack. Several dead. By car and by knife. Empty souls and empty acts. It keeps on happening, and the more I think about it, the more it makes me think of you. What if I were to find you had been snuffed out by some lowly fuck? What if there was no chance of a reunion? What if your lips would never again meet mine? Silent alarms and chopsticks. Your lips and perfect tits. I never said I was romantic, nor that I was suave, and in the face of this bullshit, is it any surprise? On social media, people pray and remain upbeat, but it just keeps happening. It doesn’t even mean anything anymore. There are voices, but they carry no intent. There are words, but they lost their meaning decades ago. There’s no pleasure, no virtues, just an endless cycle of drudgery with everyone pretending that they know what’s best. It’s enough to make you wish for the end, but then I crack open a beer and light a smoke, and as my mind empties of the stuff I have no control over, I think of you, and against my best wishes, I lose myself in visions that propel me even further out of reach.