Love is a tangible thing when you see it in a crowd in a darkened room.
Arms encompass fragile bodies, across shoulders, lips to crook of neck as they move to whisper.
A band plays as lights illuminate the sides of their faces. It's all so absent minded as they stare off at the distance, lips slightly curved with the hint of teeth as the room swallows pure comfortable intimacy.
Their laughter is silent, poised close together like a still frame from an old  french movie.  A picture perfect mime of picture perfect oh so tangible love.
I am quiet at the back of the room and it feels like the world is ending.

When I'm drunk and dancing it's like no ounce of sadness could enter my body.
Feelings of insecure pavilions can't grow here like the mountainous structures of unturned love affairs they often turn out to be.
The lights go down and I find purity in being invisible, replaying, relaying all the unrequited sadness at its most human.
Time here doesn't count. We've left the world daring, as an unfortunate thing that needs no sense or matter to put it to rest. Here we're all too trusting.
If abandoned steps of forgotten shopping malls, lips in ear, or new found friendships entrenched in cups of coffee could show us anything it's that people never last and feelings harbour longer than I ever wished they would.

I remember being offered the same bed. It was a joke amongst friends, amongst friends who'd already heard my heart flutter when I'd brought you along for quiet drinks in the kitchen. You couldn't sleep without a smoke you said after everyone had gone to bed.

In the summer air I joined you outside, turning down the cigarette when you offered. Something about the summer haze made it only natural why I'd followed you out in the early hours.

We used to talk about our lives and our feelings and the flitting of people through them. I recall the grass being wet as you paced, insisting you were holding on for something better and it was coming, you just didn't know when.

Last year in that morning dusk all I recall is the content quiet, the improbable, the quiet of the garden as your company became the volume. This was never love, this was a collection of moments that put the bird calls in the day. Placed us in orbit around the sun. Made days feel like days and nights feel like night.

(Early fondness)

Oh god we are so vulnerable, out in the open plains where people go to pray and mourn. Here there is no such thing as time, no such thing as God.

Next to a building of white wood slats, rising upwards, black tipped. Here I can reflect on my own sadness. My own to mourn. If how we met was anything less than bad timing I'd become everything good I've ever come across. But that wasn't how we ended up.

The cut out silhouettes of crows are still a cut out silhouette of ****** in this gray-scale graveyard beside a rusted worn down place of worship I cannot believe in a God so cruel as to let die our hearts or our bodies. All I hear is the wings of crows and the open air for miles around.