I was once
told that I am a tragic romantic, to which I protested with the utmost
vehemence, utterly and inherently adverse to any and all articulations of
myself as any version of an amorous fool. Yet, perhaps, as I twirl through the violent wind
at that time of the night when a blanket of deathly silence covers the earth
during the depth of a balmy and unrelenting summer, imploring him to follow me,
chase me, consume me, I cannot help but wonder if the aforementioned
description of me is entirely untrue.
The whiskey
has muddled my mind and all I remember is uttering "Until we meet
again" as I pull the door closed behind me, upholding the promise we made
to never say "goodbye". Sitting alone in the uninhabitable dark after
he has delivered me at home, the warmth of the golden liquid coursing through
my veins, I am haunted by the feeling of his lips pressing against mine. The
cool concrete of the long-forgotten basketball court against my skin, the faded
graffiti etching itself into my back. Desperate caresses stolen under a cloak
of inquisitive stars.
The culmination of months of forbidden longing and illicit fantasies. The
inevitable air of uncertainty looming ominously over our heads like a
cartoon storm cloud, because we both know that our time together will be
both tumultuous and
fleeting.
"Have
we inadvertently become the cliche we both detest with such loathing?" He
asks me as we spin around on the aging, maudlin Round-a-Bout, the only
reminder that this overgrown patch of grass was ever a play park. Presently
it is haunted by the echoes of forgotten promises and sticky ice-cream stained
fingers on a tranquil summer afternoon. The shrill cries of the laughter of
children are nothing more than a faint residual memory filtering through the
too-long blades of grass. We had spent the night flirting despairingly with a warm bottle of
Jack Daniels he had secreted away in a hidden compartment in the dashboard of
his car, expressing our malaise and unbridled abhorrence toward those prosaic and
mediocre people who are shackled by the most banal characteristics of the
platitudinous commercialized ideas of romantic love, vowing never to resemble
them.
I jump off
the still moving Round-a-Bout and seize the cool metal with both hands to draw the ride to a halt as
soon as he was close enough to face me. I remember the way the wind whipped
through my hair as I held his face in my hands, afraid to let go, terrified at
the thought of holding on. I tell him that it doesn't matter because in that
moment we are limitless, cosmic, paraphrasing a line I had once read in a
novel. All at once, in a most fortuitous and prodigious manner, I have the
distinct impression that I am a character passing through an airport terminal
and meeting eyes with a devastatingly alluring stranger in a Tolstoy novel. It
feels a lot like serendipity. When I tell him this much he simply smiles and,
cradling my face in his hands, kisses me. And suddenly, I am afraid that all we
have left is borrowed time and stolen embraces.
I told him that one day I would write
about him, and now I suppose I have.
Love & light,
M xx 
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