Nine-teen Candles

I remember my breaths measured, slow as I am perched on your cold, gray counter-top. I lean forward and tousle your smooth, dark hair. You rummage through your pockets for a few minutes while I study your face; tracing its contours, taking note of every freckle, the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. You eventually find the white flower we picked up by the pond, and tuck it behind my ear.

I remember sleepy days, sprawled across your bed. Barely speaking, watching the cars go by, the amber glow of the street light signalling that it was time to leave.

I remember thinking; this is the kind of comfortable love that never changes. You are now as I knew you then, all chocolate eyes and baby skin. You are so young in so many ways, but when you speak to this city - its concrete pavements, its brick walls, its structures that soak up its sin - when you perform on stage, you use a language that no longer needs ears to be heard. A language that ties us to something ancient that lives within us, that lives within the bowels of this monstrosity of a metropolis.

I remember clinging to the back of a dark-haired seduction, wind whipping at our faces, opportunity stinging our lips, fire in our fingers and frailty in our hearts.

I remember thinking that I'd rather be in love than in limbo.

I remember the effervescent nights on your floor, where we morphed into one clandestine being, drunk on possibility.

And that I understand - the more things change, the more they stay the same.