On that cold morning, where your breath was painted on the invisible canvas between us, it took two steps to cross our countries' borders. I imagined contact like it was a thing that only occurred between the lines of a fantasy novel, and then I stepped back, back, back, through the gate and under the neon sign.
I spoke to a drifter last night. I forget his name, but his skin was bleached and his hair was crimpy and he said: "The only thing worse than being a muse is living". Then he left, digging his toes into the floorboards on his way out. I'm not sure I'll ever hear from him again.
This morning I stood on a street corner and felt a thousand strangers' shoulders brush up against mine. I didn't move. I drank from exhaust pipes and stole expressions from faces; faceless; facing forwards, eyes cutting against the grain. I had a list of demands on a scrap of wrinkled paper. I must've lost it on the way.
I'm about to drive a shaking fist through a glass screen. You will bruise and bleed but so will I. When the glass is splayed out over the keys, we will lose all communications and our marriage will be reduced to the exposed nerves flickering behind the shattered mask. That's okay, though, I needed to move on anyway.