Arcadia

72

He wanted me to write something about us, about our evening under the city lights in October, but there were too many colours to put into words and I wish I could explain to him why some things should never be said out loud even if they push against your lips to be whispered. Some evenings, like ours, which are more beautiful than poetry and careful warm touches and never wanting to let him go. I wish we could freeze the lights, but there were too many and even now, as I think of it, they change, and the only thing that remains is our shadows and his voice. He said we must have lost our way, even though we know the back-streets of the city like the crevices of our bodies. I wish we had lost the way. I wish we had the whole night to ourselves, and all of forever besides.

Someday, I will write him a poem, with all my longing and my endless female hungers in a language worthy of love. I can only hope that he will understand.