We made some sort of short, cinematic strip, arbitrary bits of our arbitrary lives pieced together frame by frame. It was, perhaps, a creation made when there is little room to create much else.
We ran it slowly, played it at night, not knowing how it would turn out, not knowing if what we projected onto those shadowy walls would be anything coherent in the morning.
Because, you see, doubt and beauty go hand in hand.
You're right; love was the absolute last thing in the world I was after, the last thought in my mind. It was the last thought not in my mind.
But somehow when we played that film, slides running across the stale walls of my room like your hand down the contours of my confused body,
I felt it melting slowly on the tip of my tongue, tasting vaguely of something I've tried so hard to forget, the caustic bitterness of hesitance, fear, the sickly sweetness of novelty, of desire,
melting as our evenings did,
breezy nights into restless dawns.