My therapist says, “Don’t hold on so tight.” By this she means to my memories of you.
This I am told is a good beginning: that I have stopped visiting the worlds that we had created together.
But that is a lie I’ve let her believe: sometimes I still visit one of our shared worlds. Not your favourite, but not one you disliked. The one with the streets. They remain the same: tar, concrete, lapping water running torrential in gutters; footsteps of rubber soled shoes; cotton denims and leather jackets; tiny, collapsible umbrellas and transparent plastic raincoats.
Small shops lit in neon and fluorescent and halogen, selling things we’re both attached to — vegetarian noodles and kebabs and tampons and dental floss and dildos and meaningless batteries and colourful covers for the electronic devices we too often have with us.
People pass but make no eye contact.
None of them are you, but that’s why I come: to remember and not to intrude.
You’re not here, but the rain is almost always warm and comforting.