When I walk down that street and stop and I feel that time we walked down it together. When I glance into that cafe - first date. I waited for hours for you to arrive, arriving early, my work a pretense. When I fill the bike with petrol and I remember setting out for the ride, early, like it is today, like I am leaving.
All this is fine for now, for today because the memories are good and clean but one day the smoke traces will lead me back to people I miss. People who are gone. Dead perhaps or disappeared in a stamp of feet and a barrage of fists.
The secret lurch down in my bowels as I remember sex, touches, kisses. Sense memory stirring me like a drug, like the acid sweat smell of a trip coming on and all the trepidation and excitement that goes with it. Sometimes the memory of a thing is almost better than the thing itself.