Afternoons spent here and there. Sometimes nude. Other times wrapped in blankets or in each other’s arms walking the streets looking for adventure but finding nothing other than greasy spoons and boarded up bookstores. We used to go down into the cellar of one in particular, remember? Walking around and around I would spend so long looking at books that never changed and of which I knew were never going to be sold. The air was dusty, and when you grew bored, you would always threaten to steal something which would make me grab you by the hand and lead you outside like a naughty child. I am not that lover anymore, and nor are you that girl, and although it makes me sad how things worked out I can’t help but smile because in that bubble we were alive and for the briefest of moments we resisted the outside world. To tap into that which remains hidden, I obscure my real face. To be a better writer, and to write words that reach out to others, I travel an unknown path. Like your strange heart, these energies I have concerned myself with are the things that interest me most because so few have the guts to put it all on the line that for that which can’t be seen. While the rest shout and holla and vie for attention through empty acts, we sit in silence gazing at the blades of grass that dance in awe at the coming of storm clouds. When it pisses it down and the rest go inside, we stand up and embrace without the need for answers nor the comfort of conclusion. There are no celebratory guns, only the ringing in our ears from the claps of thunder that boom overhead. That bookstore we used to go to, it’s flooded now. The cellar where I would touch the small of your back while thumbing through a dog-eared book on serial killers- it’s completely submerged. At night, when no one’s looking, I go inside and swim through the aisles. In the near darkness of the murky lagoon, I catch a glimpse of our former selves, and the looks on their young faces tell me that this journey we’re on is so much more than the rest will ever know.