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My desire to be in sync with him had nearly been my undoing.

Fitzgerald was about to turn thirty and felt the press of time.

You mixed a drink of sugar, rum, brackish debris. The ice was finite.

Part of my desire to be in London related to its writers.

Those moments are all I want. I want a life of this. He sighs and I sigh.

Don’t worry baby, that’s just the way things be sometimes.

I confessed to loving another man, streetlamp sequin on a rain puddle. Later, in sleep, your arms opened to me. Mid-snore compromise.

Intimacies of the body can outlive resistances of the mind.

Maybe all of it was possible. Maybe it all could work out.

I’m still in love with this filthy city, but now I know Berlin's love isn’t free.

Delighted to be there, celestial together, as high as you get.