On sleepless nights we drive around the city without a destination in mind. We’d drive round in circles, briefly passing by his place but never entering for fear that his family will still be awake. The silence between us is never awkward, and the darkness of the night engulfs us in solitude, providing the comfort we yearn for during the day.
But as the months go by, the frequency of our meeting becomes lesser and lesser. From three, to two, to one, to zero. We drifted apart, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault really, and we can’t blame anything; except maybe, the dawn.
Dawn is a very uncomfortable time of the day. A new beginning, and the unattainable past. Things become mere memories, a faded scent that I can never place to the right touch, the right sound, the right taste.
I choose to associate the scent with music in hopes of etching it deeper into my memory. sometimes Beach House, Salyu, Alex Turner, and Rhye. All with a tinge of melancholy that pulls at my heart strings, sometimes making me feel as if it will shrivel up into nothingness.
On the nights when I’m lonely I attempt to seek solace in the music, but only to be bitter as to what has become of myself, and I wallow in disgusting self pity. I head to the immediacy of comfort, physical intimacy with a foreign touch, while fantasizing about the familiar past, desperately remembering the scent and music that I experienced during those brisk moments.
This foreign touch however, doesn’t always stay foreign. Occasionally, it occurs more than once. With this particular foreign-er, the frequency increases from one, to two, to three, to many many more.
The brief periods of intimacy evolve into long talks, comforting silences, walks around the sleepy town. Then slowly, the nights start to seem comforting again, and the cycle repeats itself over, and over, and over.