In a voice message left over from some other time, I hear her words. Soft. Sullen. Like silk, they dance upon her sharp white teeth. They did. They did. Time is thawed out. Time is a cheap trick worshiped only by those without a nose for the finer mysteries of life. Yankee candles. Snow. Crashing waves. Ghosts that walk hand in hand through bus stations at three in the morning not feeling the cold because they’ve been drinking since meeting after work. Those cafes. Those greasy spoons. Those legs adorned with black tights. The paths that lead to parks where the trees keep our secrets the same way the pages we wrote keep their meaning the same as the feelings we placed in each other’s hearts. Wispy winds through windows leading to the drawers where we keep our tear-stained letters of love. Blades of grass in gardens of leaves where her silver ballet pumps dance as if there’s no such thing as a reason why. Big cities in the rings around her eyes. They blink into existence a thousand wonders every time our lips meet and we swap each other’s spit. A quarry, mostly flooded. The early years of Facebook. A bookstore on Christmas Eve alive with the sounds of life. You fumble with your rucksack watching as she fingers the pages of Dorian Grey the same way you imagine she fingers herself with the lights out. In a simple touch, there’s so much possibility, but before you know it, the roads come and go, and you’ve no idea just how far you’ve wandered from where you truly belong.