I had no intentions of knowing you at all. 

You were that sudden, unforeseen reminder of who I was before I’ve forgotten who I was. A sea of deep thought that cascades to fractals, fragments, maybe clinging, thinning into oblivion and yet anticipating to be saved. If you hadn’t chosen a better time than a tranquil night I wouldn’t have noticed. Our inevitable thoughts of melancholy wouldn’t be murmuring on every puff of smoke. 

“This is nice,” you said. I would have said the same thing. The phrase acts as a snapshot. 

I knew you were capable of lying, and you were keeping things. It was one of the things I dread about myself, on how I am incapable of ignorance, and how my own senses betray me when I choose to turn a blind eye. I believe you knew that as well, as your conversations lurk cautiously around someone who can smell lies, and how you kept your distance. I was afraid of you too, as someone who struggles with words, my thoughts were brimming and only a few managed to squeeze themselves out. You noticed me shift, waddle, and shudder like a leaf and yet you held me close. 

“This is nice”, you said. And I was pulled from the swarm of unknowns and into the present. 

I would have told a Diogenes anecdote when you joked about loving chicken. I could have told you I could smell a KFC bucket from across the room. I could have told you I’m strange, and that strangeness may exceed what you’ve assumed of me. I should have told you that I speak to the old gods, wallow into the darkness, and howl and dance under the moon.  Yet I stifled my thoughts, brought a stick in my mouth and lit. You've paused after an outpouring of sentiments and ideologies, then entwined your fingers with mine. 

“This is nice,” you said. I’ve finally felt my own smile. 

You mocked your own weight, and how ordinary you look. I would have told you how perfect you are, and my own thoughts only drifted into sinking into your skin when I placed my forehead against your chest. I would have told you that there is impermanence in what worries you, and my eyes are blind to what is skin-deep. I would have immersed myself in your soul and felt the stars. 

“This is nice,” I thought. The dawn threatened me. 

You’ve tricked me into kissing you. And it was that single moment that I’ve decided not to be held back by uncertainties. There’s not a trace of coffee on our lips, or cigarettes in our breaths, but you have pulled me in a way I have forgotten how to be cautious, and allowed myself to drown and not resurface. 

“This is nice,” you said. I knew I came undone. 

I knew that you’ve changed once I pulled away, as though your senses have washed themselves of my every trace, and you’ll be heading somewhere I no longer exist. I have reminded myself of ephemerality numerous times, that words and promises are still as friable as paper on water. And yet I wanted to bargain. Maybe a few more weeks, months, enough to not feel how brevity could be fleeting so fast that it's harrowing. I took the moment to see you disappear as the sun rose up, its warm light swelling between the clouds. I walked again the other night to the spot where you’ve parked only to see it empty, and a void where I’ve filled up memories of a pair of coffee cups and two boxes of cigarettes next to each other, as though they would secretly engage in an endless conversation about old gods and wise men. I pulled out a stick, and tears brimmed my eyes as smoke slipped off my lips. 

“This is nice,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes.