Two months on cobblestone streets just felt crowded and lonely. Trust fund kids playing starving artist; empty-headed mirror-gazers confusing “wanting to be heard” with “having something to say”. Some people you want to talk to and some people you just want to fuck. Laughed, swatted his arm, swirled ice. “Want to get out of here?”
Doorstep, towering, his hand in my mittened hands. Turned back, felt his eyes, slid to the floor. Cried until I couldn’t remember why.