Longing for / What Used to Be

Same location, same sweet July air, but it feels like everything else has changed.

It was a magnificent hour. I remember it way better than what could be considered polite from either of us, according to the rules of romance literature and alcohol anyway, but like every hour, on the long run it became only a fraction, a miniature sparkle of time.

Time isn't a stale mess, something that you could really describe with terms of physics. It's a never-ending loop, a paradox of continuous birth and death, something ancient that kills and eats itself along with eventually everything else in the world over and over again, leaving nothing worthy behind.

With the branch we first held hands on demolished, our stairs transformed into something else, the church and its square became a concrete graveyard of every faint memory I had about her tender touch.

But that night, for one exceptional hour, long overdue, the future was so bright indeed.

I dreamt of scarred wrists again last night.