the stars must have aligned on that chilly october night,

although it was a tragic series that introduced us.

morrissey and the patriarchy were the only words that fell through our screens, 

pixels and cell towers separating yet connecting us.

i’ve never quite met someone like you, only when i catch a glimpse in a shop window, i see my own reflection and you buried so deep within.

purple cotton and thick soled boots,

flared denim and corduroy dreams.

i stood in a corner surrounded by strangers, yourself included, but the gurgle of your words and the click of your lighter brought instant comfort. who are you?

abandoned echoes strung across aerials standing metres above us, reflecting the pink glow of the eye i stood before.

frustrated sighs for steps i placed upon sticky floors at waterloo station yet your whispers reassured how it was such a “pasha thing to do” pasting a smile upon my cheeks, an unrecognisable sight.

was it you or was it the burning sage between my chipped nails?

hours spent which faded like seconds,

communes and campers, minty brushes and hushed giggles under the crescent glow, i’m reminded of a time where i wasn’t so cold and alone.

we float beneath this tidal wave of platonic love; drifting away, perched beneath the italian summer, frayed leather and blotted ink fuelling this utopian fantasy. 

‘sei la cosa più bella che mi sia mai capitata’

lilac wine brought serenity to the cage i felt so trapped in, the one you referred to as my yellow box.

although unfortunate laces tied us together we walk in the same shoes on divided paths.

in a world so lonely, overflowing with passion for a simplistic escape.

one could say it was just like heaven, or at least that’s what my nihilistic  whirlpool of a mind imagines it to be.