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I Used To Wonder Why People Wrote Books About This Kind Of Thing
It was late summer and we were
chasing nostalgia behind rusty alleys and
abandoned back-roads while we fell in love with
the city’s stillness after dark. You were driving
with your hand between my knees and the
city had built walls around us that night.
It was late summer and we were behind some
cathedral you said your parents used to take
you to when you were little. You talked about the
way certain kinds of architecture gave these
places a beautiful antiquity. I watched you
as you sat down and sketched it.
It was late summer and the walls in
your parent’s bedroom were much too thin.
You kiss places on me that have never been
kissed and I understand how John Green is
able to write about love as I sigh with the
wind and moan until the stars come out
and swiftly fall over us.
(2013)
