It took me a quarter of a century to find you, to find this, us. Us, you, me, and our shabby apartment in the heart of Camden. You, me, and our story, adorned by unassuming moments that happened before we even knew anything was happening. You, and me, but mostly you, and your way of looking at the world, almost as if it's a second hand dystopian novel - one that I would have never read if it weren't for you. You, and the way your face lights up when you see me walk across the quad, maybe because it's the best part of your day, or maybe because you think the man in the ice cream van, on our way to Regent's Park, is my best friend who has reserved a 99 Flake only for you. You, and your marmite lips.
Spread across mine, warm as toast. Salty, with just the right amount of sweetness. You, and cricket, and our bus ride home, and the forty minutes it took you to explain half of the rules. How he was out for a duck - not a goose or a swan but a duck. How the ball would have struck the wicket if his leg wasn't where his leg should be. Like a parallel universe, but for legs, and us, us back then. Back when all I really cared about were the dimples complementing your smile like base pairs in the human genome. Back when Mondays took on a whole new meaning, and The Coronet with its red velvet seats became my idea of safe haven. Back when white daisies were just flowers and a penny was just a coin.
You, and your fascination with fossils, and Star Wars, and the air bass guitar - your strumming so authentic that if Dire Straits were to reunite, they would have no problem hiring you instead of Illsley. You, and cookies, and creme eggs, and anything else with chocolate in it. You, and your balderdash, and every other word in the British English dictionary that I have had to google. Gobbledygook. You, on top of the world, and me, and us, this morning, in our shabby apartment in the heart of Camden. You, and me, and the infinite number of words I had to write before I found you, before I found this, us.
You, and me, meticulously woven to a dream catcher I still haven't bought.
Spread across mine, warm as toast. Salty, with just the right amount of sweetness. You, and cricket, and our bus ride home, and the forty minutes it took you to explain half of the rules. How he was out for a duck - not a goose or a swan but a duck. How the ball would have struck the wicket if his leg wasn't where his leg should be. Like a parallel universe, but for legs, and us, us back then. Back when all I really cared about were the dimples complementing your smile like base pairs in the human genome. Back when Mondays took on a whole new meaning, and The Coronet with its red velvet seats became my idea of safe haven. Back when white daisies were just flowers and a penny was just a coin.
You, and your fascination with fossils, and Star Wars, and the air bass guitar - your strumming so authentic that if Dire Straits were to reunite, they would have no problem hiring you instead of Illsley. You, and cookies, and creme eggs, and anything else with chocolate in it. You, and your balderdash, and every other word in the British English dictionary that I have had to google. Gobbledygook. You, on top of the world, and me, and us, this morning, in our shabby apartment in the heart of Camden. You, and me, and the infinite number of words I had to write before I found you, before I found this, us.
You, and me, meticulously woven to a dream catcher I still haven't bought.