When my mother and father first met she asked him if he liked Mick Jagger. She took him from New York to Russia and Los Angeles before that violent afternoon at the height of autumn. He's gone now but the phantom pains from my amputated wings will always be there to remind me.
They started gradually, for so many years
before them I was manically afraid of forgetting. We would escape
together, just him and me chasing tail lights in the dark somewhere. I
tried to mimic those moments with someone else but I could never lay
down and rest the way I wanted to, the way I always could with him.
I try now I can hear my heart beating so loud it sounds like thunder. I
remember music playing and I remember the words and how they seemed to
be written just for us.