❝ It was a summer night, I remember, and the birdsong overhead was an orchestra in soaring treble. The crickets were our choir. Dusk had painted inky rivers upon your skin, orange-red peaks rising loftily in your hair and when you spoke I heard the wolves living within your voice. I asked what you wanted and you traced circling roses on my throat. I asked if you’d kiss me and you said “If you don’t mind.” I didn’t mind. And now I can only wonder which invisible playwright put those words inside our mouths that night. I can only wonder why your lips curved like lilies and your skin tasted of hot raw honey. Who set the scene, who wrote the lines, who placed the rushing want within my rib cage like an ocean of air. Who adorned you with subtly angled light and blew cool wind at our shadowed limbs so that I’d hold you tight. What unseen force drew us together, which lofty god later held you apart. For surely you didn’t want to leave, right? Did you want to? Should I wait? Should I have asked for you to stay? ❞