after listening to Portrait of a Time
eyes closed. VCR memories.
seven. shirtless, we are running bare feet on the ground. summer lake. splash splash splash. we blow bubbles from hand soap. we chase them like butterflies. milk teeth. we think dreams are real. lipkiss. he is like my brother, i am like his sister. mutton lunches. Sundays. dad’s cassettes. Christmas tree. the house is decorated all the time. come rain or shine.
sixteen. first kiss. french kiss. leap of faith every day. sweet nothings scribbled on the margins of paperbacks. question papers turned to paper planes.
red kites always fly in our skies.
your house is a bicycle ride away.
twenty. our era begins in the night. subway walls, a map of graffiti rebellion. blowing raspberries at passing trains. your car pierces through the neon yellows of the city.
love is in the air.
hands make waves in the blur of fleeting cityscape. we leave everything behind. your car never stops at signals.
twenty-seven. now the heart stops at burning cigarette butts. wine keeps pouring. we don’t run after the world anymore. tap dancing to breaking hearts. we have tattoos our parents won’t ever approve. projector light streak painting dingy apartment walls. exhibition of a summer 2005 birthday party.
she is getting married this summer. not to him. he is still trying to make a living as an artist. she and she are going on and on about how her Bumble profile needs a makeover.
the night is still young in all its ageing.
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