There’s a row of sycamore trees and your hand is in mine. It’s just after eleven and there’s so much to say but the silence that rings out between us is more than enough somehow. No words, just the warmth of our flesh as we walk down streets we haven’t passed through since we were in love. How many years has it been now? It’s difficult for me to say as time has a habit of just slipping away. There’s twilight and a thousand memories of a thousand lifetimes and as you smile at me as we cross the road to yours, there’s regret and beauty and there’s even hate but there has to be because this is real life. If you want the truth, I can never decide if I want you more than anything, or if I want you to suffer for hurting me like you did. Is it your lips and your kiss that take me through the days, or the fantasy of breaking you down into little pieces so you can haunt me no longer? Is it both- are they one and the same? These questions will never be answered. There’s a row of sycamore trees and your hand reaches out to touch their leaves. When it does, you turn to look at me with such a look of achievement on your face, and for a second, for the briefest of moments, it’s as if this is all we will ever know, and all of those mistakes and dead-ends that dragged us down for so long never even existed.