What is it — I struggle to know it as I desperately attempt to dig its remains out of my memory. I scour the surface of old photographs, fraying love letters, fragments of nightmares and the sensation that once tingled up my arms to figure it out. But I can’t. Age has made me forgetful, cynical. I wonder if I ever knew it.
Did I know it when I was 15 and under a nervously trembling body of another 15 year-old soul? Did I know it when I wrote love letters to his private boarding school across the globe, and he sent me the least generic of fortunes he collected from his late night Panda deliveries? Did I know it when we spent two nights and three days tangled up in unchanged sheets in a hotel in our own city, not knowing if it was day or night outside?
View original post 490 more words