It ended suddenly at the onset of winter, our passion, which common morality would call shameless or obscene. So many nights we glided with the moon beneath our feet. Perhaps it wasn’t love, but it was nearer to it than any other comparing stars twinkling among life’s constellations.
Your departure left me abed for a week, sleep sighing longer each morning until the days grew short and sunless. When I finally emerged from my flat I passed the most beautiful young women as if they were blooms in moonlight as I wandered somnambulant and blind.
How frozen I became, a buried stream flowing slowly along old tram routes. Even now, you perfume my clothes and memories of us shine like stars above these eternal snows.
This entry is part of Jack Rusher’s archive, originally published January 14th, 2014, in New York.