Tell me that I'm the product of my father's confident smile, and the sum total of my mother's reticent blush. And I'll tell you that I'm the product of three vodka martini's and of a commitment not to die alone.

We were alone in the moment, foolish in hindsight, and giddy with the intoxicating allure of what had already been dubbed "Jeune amour: une tragédie".

Its not that I wanted it to be any different, its just that I could never hold you for longer than the whisper of a promise in my ear.

...and the number of your house.

I drifted away at two in the morning, leaving you unsure as to the direction of your life. The world was vast and open, alive with different equations, solutions and variables. Your sky pulsed with numbers and my heart pulsed with letters.

The silence had been minimal, the passion had been phenomonal. But we were never more together than when we were alone in each others arms.

The night had proved decisive, chilly, the fold in the page. The start of a chapter. I was warm with the buzz of the after-coffee, despondent with the feeling of melancholy.

"To think that I lay next to you, wasting time when I could do. A simple job. In strip lights"

You were never more than the sensation of what you had done to me.

...and I was never more to you than a brace against the wind.