late storms.

Fingers interlocked, elbows locked. He touches your hair and brushes your cheek, whispers something sweet, and you think you can't think anything at all right at this moment. But if you're thinking you can't think something, doesn't that still mean you're thinking it? And if you know you can think it, does that mean whatever you feel is fleeting, self-created? You forget as he whispers more words. They aren't meant to be funny. You break into soft laughter, give him your eyes with your eyebrows raised, lips parted as your laughter cascades down the path, through the grass and flowers.

Purple has turned to shades of gray in the black night sky. Everything is white, black, gray, absence of light, fullness of life. When you are young, you grow ripe in the night air. You learn to live in a world of nighttime, turning the stars into little lanterns to light the path to the top of this hill. Somewhere in the star-littered sky, someone watches you and smiles. You look back at your interlocked fingers, you think of how hard his shoulder presses into yours. Maybe you are watching this scene from outside of your own body. Maybe those are the eyes you feel pressing you as you straighten your posture, lifting your legs to your chin to try to keep your core warm.

In the room, a British flag above the doorway, his family lineage, a parade, quiet music, a glass of water. He asks you to return, you think of the impossible possibilities encompassed in the humid room. That is all they are. Impossible possibilities, with more emphasis on the former. You keep it that way. He will too, you know he will, even if his whispered words form the shapes of open doorways, miles of highways, airplanes and hot air balloons. You decide you will remember him only through words, words which cannot possibly distill what you felt as the sky looked down on you.