Walking hand in hand through buildings that will one day crumble into dust, we observe the pale traces of life in silence. Drinking from our warm cans of beer, we know by morning it will be over, and the distance between us will be as it was, but in this tiny bubble, we smile and make the most of it because our time in this place is special, is it not? There are no explanations or excuses. No words of comfort or plans for the future. Leave that shit for those who think they’re never going to die and that life rolls out the red carpet to them and them alone. No, all we need is a few hours to be close enough to remember that our love is real and should be worshipped even though it hurts and more often than not we can’t be in the same room as each other let alone the same bed. This fire. These emotions. May they stick around and may they knife us in the guts because this is what love is, none of that wishy-washy crap they try and numb us with. Real love shouldn’t pacify, it should enrage and leave you on the verge of coming apart. Real love is an aching heart and a sense of humiliation that won’t shift. In fact, it’s more hate than it is love, and as we move through the debris of an old electrical store, we look each other in the eyes and more is said in this one glance than most couples say in a lifetime. Is this the town you grew up in, or is it the one where we first met? Did we come straight from yours, or did we agree to meet outside the library, the one near the bookstore I used to work in? As we look through the remnants of some other time and place, we kick away the trash and sit crossed legged on the floor with our backs resting against the remains of two old display units. You looking at me, and me looking at you. In near darkness, we throw pieces of rubble up into the air and drink the rest of our beer. It could go either way. I guess we won’t know until we step outside and the moonlight hits our aching faces, and the town spins like it used to.