This is what he remembers of his first year in love.
Sticky summer evenings on leftover bicycles
Green grass cuttings and the heather scent of your hair
One legged races and falling down together
And getting up together, everytime.
Knitting words so true that they became laws into themselves
What we writ on paper was our sinews and our bones
Magic promises, and you pulled me into a love of myself
Along with my love of you.
I’d never bought a pair of pants for a girl before
Never walked home at midnight carrying her laundry
Trying to scare her, and myself, with remembrances of
Low mists and Japanese ghost children, and all those things that terrify.
Realising that we were not scared together.
I hiked an island while you wrote and waited
On tables and coffee consumers, and I wrote
And lay in bed, in the warmth, with my phone cards
that were always running out
And my emails, and your emails, and we started a story together
That will never be finished, that we’ll always be writing
Until the end of the world.