One

*The scent of lilacs was stronger in the evening. As if the little dew drops in the air picked up the flowers themselves and carried them to my open window and sprinkled them all over the small flat*.

*It was really just a single room with a sad excuse for a kitchen and a tiny bathroom. At some point someone had decided it was a good idea to paint the kitchen cabinets in a hideous pea green*,

*but on nights when the lilacs smelled like that I didn't notice any of it. I would sit on one of the unmatched chairs by the little table at the window, with music playing loud enough for it to be heard on*

*the street below, hoping that someone would walk by and hear it, and maybe look up, and maybe it would be you, and if it wasn't it would be someone who could fill the void for a little while. It was for this*

*reason I never locked my door either. Doors are not meant to keep people out, but to let people in. And I would let anyone in. No locks, no barriers, no walls were there between me and the rest of the world*.

*So people would come and go, friends and lovers and sometimes strangers who needed a break, or an adventure or a plate of badly cooked beans. Even when the place was empty I could feel the presence of their*

*thoughts and beating hearts, as if they had left them behind, swirling in the air with the cigarette smoke that also was a constant presence. If I needed a moment to myself I would go out, into the city that*

*had always been my home. If I looked to the north I would see the old hospital where I'd been born, the window to which my dad would always point and say "That's where we first met." and then proceed to*

*tell me the story of how the first snow of the year had fallen that night. How the nurse who called him to say it was time had told him to be careful, and how everything had been silent with black skies over*

*a white world. I've always known exactly where I came from. You would think that would have made me less restless, less rootless, more grounded. But I never even had a direction in which to move and my*

*unpredictable heart was like a bumble bee on a field. I would change jobs, friends, lovers and ideas so fast that I sometimes went back to somewhere I'd already been and not even remember it*.

*I'd pack a bag and go stand by the road and hitch-hike to no where in particular just to feel the heat of the asphalt through the soles of my shoes and the smell of dust and carbon dioxide, and for that*

*thrill. That sensation that reminded me of falling. Knowing that I did not know where I'd end up, who I'd meet or why. With the sun burning on my neck and the weight of what little I had in the bag on my*

*skinny shoulder. Maybe though, the courage to do this came from knowing that I had a place to come back to. People who loved me, and that familiar city that would sing to me under my feet as I walked it's*

*dirty streets. And that flat, with the scent of lilacs clinging to it in June. The single mattress on the floor, with sheets that had reached that state of wear where they are at their softest, and most frail*,

*, where I would fit my body against yours, feel the angle of your hipbones against my skin that would be cool after walking home in those early morning hours of summer, when the sun is up and it looks like*

*it's the middle of the day, except the streets are all empty and the scents are different and the chill of the night is still in the ground. Those mornings you would already be there, with your sleep-warm*

*body and your dark, peaceful eyes, and when you closed them the long lashes would cast shadows on your cheeks, making you look younger than you really were. You looked like a sculpture when you slept, when*

*the world couldn't reach you, and... wait... no. I would like to revise this. The one who are called You in this, is the one least likely to ever read it. I cannot keep on writing to him. Not still, after all*

*these years. There has been many You after him. So, this is how it goes. He looked like a sculpture when he slept, when the world couldn't reach him and it was then I could pretend that he loved me*.

*When he was awake I could see it in his eyes, his fear of me, or if it was fear of what we would be together, I couldn't tell. So I preferred him in his sleep, or so tightly entwined in me that I didn't have*

*to meet his eyes. But he would still give me the peace that nobody else could give, a space of calmness, almost like a vacuum, where my thoughts and heart were quiet. And it would stay with me for a time even*

*after he was gone. As long as his scent lingered on my skin and in my hair I would love myself, the world would be a little brighter and I wouldn't need to find escape. I still don't understand why it was*

*like that with him. The truth is we barely even talked to each other. He would come and go as he pleased, and I never knew when or if he'd be back. While he was gone I could almost forget about him, and would*