"you must be somewhere in London, you must be loving your life in the rain."
At times, this has felt like my first winter. Your leaving made the cold sharper. My scarf hangs me in suspense, and there are words like Turkey on my tongue, Armenia, my belly curving and dipping like a corrie in the Scottish highlands. I become obsessed with all things foreign, and my irrelevance begins to haunt me. So I stand under a burnt sky, I hoard dictionaries. I try to find the right words for this feeling, but my translations are poor. There are days when everything else falls by the wayside. My dreams make us into the strangest history. I remember my last summer, when you chewed my shoulders like a teething child. I remember the heat of you, I stuck to you like a stamp. We could have gone anywhere. And now when I feel the cold I think of you. Your magician's smile, your immediate sleep. I wonder if your mouth is still a kiss waiting to happen. Whether your spine is still the loveliest knot, still made of hazelnuts.