3. There are nights where I wonder if your touch was real, if the fire burnt your skin and if you gripped me and said, ‘Don’t go. I couldn’t bear it,’ when the sheets were laid back and we were laid bare.
4. The forest outside was burning, mixing with the cold air. I wasn’t sure if it was the mist or my thoughts, but I could never seem to find my way with you.
5. When I told you that your hair was brown you laughed and said it would always be the colour of the fire in front of us. The next morning the fire slept, the whispers of the embers of last night replaced by the frosty crackling of remembrance.
6. I always imagined our meeting to be different. The lights changed colours and with them, your face changed, a chameleon under a watchful eye and bad intentions.
7. Every Sunday you would change the sheets on your bed. When I left, you changed them on a Tuesday and threw me out with stale powder and a double rinse.
8. When our log cabin was snowed in, I knew it meant more time. When you slept, I killed the fire so we wouldn’t thaw out before dawn.
9. I heard you quietly praying to a God you didn’t believe in. ‘Please,’ you said, ‘let him stay and be kind.’ I scrubbed my hands for three hours that night, I knew that I was filthy in comparison.
10. Your hair was red, and I orbited you in the darkness. When the sun came up, I wasn’t sure which light to follow.
|—||Little Tommy Sawyer’s Summer Scrapbook of Growing Sideways – Part 2|