Before the real city could be seen it had to be imagined, the way rumours and tall tales were a kind of charting.

A postcard. Neat handwriting fills the rectangle. Half my days I cannot bear to touch you. The rest of my time I feel like it doesn’t matter if I will ever see you again. It isn’t the morality, it’s how much you can bear. No date. No name attached.

All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.

Before the real city could be seen it had to be imagined, the way rumours and tall tales were a kind of charting.

I believe this. When we meet those we fall in love with, there is an aspect of our spirit that is historian, a bit of a pedant who reminisces or remembers a meeting when the other has passed by innocently…but all parts of the body must be ready for the other, all atoms must jump in one direction for desire to occur.

This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the key to everything before morning.

He knows that the only way he can accept losing her is if he can continue to hold her or be held by her. If they can somehow nurse each other out of this. Not with a wall.