When we were 17, we talked about forever like it was an insurance plan and not the back of a beat up Sköda that broke down halfway through our vacation in Paris
we forgot that those two weeks the tires were punctured and the engine rumbled like smoker lungs were the best moments of our lives,
where the back of your head shaped itself into my lap and called that place ‘home’
where I plaited your hair through my fingers and found new places to kiss you every day palms became compasses and bodies became maps and you sang ‘Atlas Hands’ to me until your throat was hoarse, but it was okay
because I learnt every last lyric and on our last day in Paris I scrawled them all over your body and whimpered ‘please don’t forget’ into your open mouth
you memorised the way I held myself and swore down to the earth that you could find me in a crowd with a blindfold on and after that we talked about forever without knowing that forever was exactly where we stood.
When forever finally came, she wasn’t what we expected, she didn’t wear gold or clocks instead, she looked like you when you were five, she made you mad at me because I burnt the toast and she put grey in your beard, and jealousy in your hands and even the way you held my hips felt different
I wanted to scream for her to go away, that we’d wished too young and that we hadn’t known, I wanted to tell her that I’d found my forever with you, in a dusky motel room, in a small part of France we couldn’t name, in Paris, in Atlas Hands. Azra.T “Counting Tomorrows” (via 5000letters)