Hungry, Restless, Wicked, and Wild

Sitting on the curb outside the pizza place, hair frizzy from the mist off the falls, your headphones on my ears, New Kind of Love blaring. Slow conversation. Laughter. A bus ride home with knees against the seat, summer air on our palms out the window, swapping songs, shoulder to shoulder. Bon Iver, our realization of the dark starlit voyage: how clearly and unavoidably romantic. Your dry humour, my opinions. Innocuous couch promises with racing intentions; captured and hungry. It feels like a million years ago, doesn’t it?

We’ve done so much, changed so much, but I love that you’re still the only one who really knows how to crack me open.