She Was.

25th of February

I want to ride through the narrow, winding laneways of Plaka with you on the back of your bike. Sunrise after a long night out. Or, dusk — the beginning time. It should be uncharacteristically balmy weather for early spring. I want to wrap my arms around you tightly, feel my front pressed against your back. Lean in close, nothing separates. Smell of leather and your skin. My head resting on your shoulder, laughing, shouting to be heard. Your rough beard grazing my smooth cheek. High on sensation. High on possibility. (The magic in that word — possibility.) My legs wrapped around yours. Nothing to go home to. What’s home? Discovering previously hidden places together — yours, mine, ours, the old town’s. Stopping, walking, fingers entwined, your mouth on mine, deep, searching, new again (and again, and again, and again). Your eyes on mine, smiling. It’s been so long. Listening to you tell your stories, grateful for the music floating up to us — songs played I won’t remember afterwards. Living. The clarity of the light, or the sweetness of darkness. And secrets, secrets born in one of the many laneways so perfectly designed for stolen, suspended time. Stolen suspended time with you.

It makes me blush to want this so much. I hate this yearning.

(Last week, yesterday, today, I am so fucking in love with this city.)