• • •

Live on coffee and flowers. Try not to worry what the weather will be.

I can't live without him.

And when he appeared, suddenly all the love songs made sense. But it was only after he left that she understood the sad ones.

There she was, at 4am, in your bed. You loved her then, didn’t you? She was wearing your duvet like a cape, with her head poking out. She loved you back; she really did. You said, “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never met anyone like you.” She said simply, “kiss me.” So you did. You lifted her chin and kissed her mouth and swallowed her giggles whole. You felt her sunshine fill your lungs as she wrapped her arms around your neck. You felt the duvet fall as she leant forward. “Tell me a secret,” she said. She was always saying these things. “I’ve told you everything already,“ you said. Your lips were on her neck. “Tell me a secret,” she repeated. “Okay,” you sighed, “I love you.” “Tell me a secret.“ "I’ve always loved you.”

She glanced at me and offered a small, consolation smile. “Maybe some things aren’t supposed to last,“ she said, “maybe they mean more that way.

Picture this. Ten years from now, you’re sitting in a big house, all white picket fence and porch swings. Ten years ago you swore you’d be living in a big city with her by your side but something happened along the way and you watched as those plans disintegrated in the palms of your hands. You watch the sunrise and you watch the sunset and you wonder if she’s somewhere on the other side of the planet like she promised. “I gotta get out of here,” she said, “it doesn’t matter how I do it or where I go, I’m getting out.” Picture this. Twenty years from now, you find your first grey hair. You dutifully have that middle aged panic attack that everyone seems obliged to have and you screw up your eyes and pull it out. Your life is pretty steady now: good, calm, like you’ve finally figured things out. “I’m getting old,” you grumble. And somewhere, at the back of your mind, you wonder if she’s getting old too. Picture this. Fifty years from now your hair is like snow (if you have any, that is). Your walking stick is your new best friend and memories seem to flit in and out of your head like clouds in the sky. Most days you can’t remember what you had for breakfast or what you’ll have for tea, and some days it’s beginning to hurt to breathe. It’s on these occasions, when your chest is heavy and you have to sit down, that you remember her. You think how true it is that you don’t forget the people you loved when you were young. You may not remember yesterday’s weather but you remember the fifty year old summer breeze and complaining about her hair in your face. “I wonder if she’s happy,” you say, and people mistake it for mindless rambling. “I hope she found what she was looking for.”