We live together in a photograph

When she came over two months ago, we lay on my bed most of sunday and looked through photos I'd brought with me from home. And through the oohs and aahs that poured out, my sighs and goosebumps were probably quite apparent.
At night when I lie awake and watch the lights through the curtain, my mind always climbs back into those photos and the skin I used to have and share with you, but it never does my any good.
If there were something I could do to make this all better, believe me I would do it.

"...this is the sound of settling..."

I just can't see what to do.

"...coz i'm optionless and turkey free... and blind."

To the girl at the back (please stand up)

Do you remember that time I bought you a blender just before 10pm? You were sick at home and I was working late, and I promised to make you potato and leek soup to cheer you up.
I was so excited on the way home. I thought a blender would be the perfect gift to say I'm sorry for the failure I had been.

Perhaps the very fact that I thought that should be a clear indication that I was still failing miserably at giving you what you really needed.

I told the taxi to drop me at Shirble, and I quickly climbed the stairs past the grumbling security guard nervously eying his watch, past the whiskey and past the cashiers, up the escalators three times, and around the corner to the scores of salesmen waiting in their green suits with faces agape.
In broken Chinese and gesturing wildly I managed to convince one of them to part with one of their very best blenders.
Two, three steps at a time I bolted downstairs to get the potatoes and leeks and to pay for the blender.
Out the door, around the corner, sliding on the glistening tiles I eventually made it into the lobby and up to floor 23.
Door 5 on the left, two knocks and a kiss.

Even seeing you now in my memory, my breath is caught on the strand of wonder that wound its way through 5 years.

Into the kitchen, stern instructions to lay down and let me take care of you blazenly ignored, I start the soup.
Two hours later, the cities lights spread out before us through open curtains, we sit down to a bowl of steaming soup, proudly blended in your brand new blender.



They come and go with startling clarity. With no respect for time or place, they often reduce me to a wholly inappropriate silence, met usually by blank stares and uncomprehending faces.

I just wish there were some way of telling them.

But I suspect people just won't understand the importance of late night blender shopping.