i love the moments after getting out of the shower. running fingers over clean, smooth skin, feeling the curve from my hipbone to the smooth plane of my thigh, the swoops and dips from my clavicle to my shoulder to my arm, slipping on a loose shirt and feeling the material settle over my *******, pulling on a pair of your boxers or some nice underwear and walking out into your room, the inhale of breath as you hold me and your fingertips realise i am wearing no bra, and the moments following when you touch me and - forget it being ****** - it just feels so beautiful and so human, and i smile as your fingernails tickle me and you wet my dry lips with your tongue.

and then the moment between the final shot of the movie and the beginning of the credits, the moment where all is dark and quiet, and my heart stops for a second as it does in every movie, until the music, loud and bright, as the credits roll on screen and you are gently touching my shoulder as if to wake me from a sleep.
“mary?” you whisper.
“yes,” i whisper back. i am here. we are here. we made it.
around us people stumble from their seats, groping for belongings, trekking through the popcorn and various other debris on the floor. you hold my hand even tighter than before, as if afraid to lose me in the commotion.
“can we wait here a little longer?” you say suddenly into my ear. i am thinking, why do you want to wait? and i am thinking, i always wait to be the last to leave, too. and i am thinking, you and me equals meant to be. and i am thinking, do you wait for the same reasons i do?
but i murmur, “okay.”
we lapse into silence even though the cinema is still loud, and then you stand and we slowly make our way to the back, tiptoeing past the seats to the aisle and sighing up the stairs. we hang around looking at each other in the darkness with the faint green light from the exit sign drawing out the whites in our eyes, until the very last person has trailed out through the double doors. then you grab me, so fast, so hard, and push me against one of the doors, your body pressed all the way against mine, and i am hoping the cleaners do not try and walk in but then we kiss, of course, because why else would you hang around to the end of the movie credits? and i can’t breathe because you are too good for me, too experienced, but then you pull open the other door and we are out in the light, blinking, laughing, wondering how can it still be daylight, and also, how did we ever find each other?

i remember the 17th of may but i doubt you do. another day driving in your car, this time tom odell playing through the stereo. the sun was melting our skin like honeycomb, sweet and delicious as we kissed at each red light, slowing before them on purpose, even before the traffic lights flashed amber.
i only remember that day specifically because you turned to me and said, “this is what it’s all about.”
“what’s that?” i asked.
and you said, “days like this are what life is all about,” slowly and quietly, but i still heard you because tom was singing even slower and even quieter.
how can i move on?
roads and highways are plagued with these endless thoughts of you.

everything is falling apart and i am no longer a part of anything.

i pressed my hand against the cool glass of the bus window, the print of my palm wiping away the dewy moisture from the freezing winter morning. outside it was fog and frost and cars and traffic blurring their way through the city. inside it was quiet and stranger’s silence and like another dimension; the faint yellow lights down the aisle illuminating the passengers’ tired faces.
outside, the enormous buildings revealing the dark and tantalising history of the city, the gothic structures contrasting with the business men and women with their cardboard coffee cups and briefcases in hand.
inside, itchy navy blue tights and an unlabelled plastic water bottle to sustain me for the rest of the day.
the morning was wonderful in its twisted simplicity, a million people doing a million things, and me on the bus, watching it all.

i’m thinking unhealthy things. i’m starting to think that we’re forever.

there was a florist and i really liked it, all the colours and flowers and tubs and bouquets and it was really just gorgeous, sort of too pretty for words. you know, like stars when the sky is the deepest sort of black; like how sometimes you can smudge paints together to create an image of clouds in front of a setting sun that takes your breath away; like you.
i told you my one rule when it comes to flowers, but it was too late, you had already bought me thirteen pink tulips. i smiled and thanked you and they were really beautiful but it made me a little sad because i would rather a rose bush for my backyard, a strawberry plant, a walk through the botanical gardens. something that wouldn’t wither away within days, something solid and lasting, like i hoped we would be.