The life that we had in that room, that tiny room that smelled of melting wax and the stale heat pouring in through rusty baseboard heaters. Cinnamon tea late into the night. I hung some pink curtains that I had made out of old bedsheets, so that in the early morning, the room was bathed with pink light. To see your skin in that pink morning light. To see your skin beneath my fingers in that light, once again. Here.

That time, those spaces. Since then, there have been others, of course. Since then, there have been other hands, other limbs, other skin on my own. Other voices. Other smells. Other ways of expressing our desperation. How is it then, that after all this time, I should be remembering you?