Sometimes, a freakish quiet, a blank in a circle of cheerful noise
Seated on the proxy steps of Roman ruins I glimpse distant sparkles through sooted arches and endless orange bows
Without looking, I see a little stream by a staircase, washing away a sticky-stuffy feeling
I see lack of sleep and hormonal exhaustion
Chased by bitter orange and sunscreen
Someone grabbing and prodding
Kisses snuck from under sleeping limbs
A sleepwalker throws an imagined ball into a net in the night wearing only his crumpled briefs
I remember twos and threes, orange glimmers in the dark at the tips of fingers snuffed out in languages that have become more familiar in the recent past
One boat goes by, and then another, and then another, and another and then none
And something being too ungraspable, too arresting to get up and leave (like so many times before)
I remember kisses exchanged over phone (not kisses, the word “kisses”) and my back hurting
I remember the general lag between arrival and understanding
Less than a cloud of elderflower scent delivered on the slowly cooling evening air
I remember longing and tiny white petals and very small dogs with glow stick collars guiding me there
I remember thinking I'm a membrane, a transmitter
A blank stare passes me on a bridge
Blue, tight-fitting shirt and silver ballet flats
Words slurred not from drunkenness but urgency and the unwillingness to look down on a screen but the words needing out, as the men who walk around every night in every bigger European city equipped with big SLR cameras pick up their never finished work of cataloguing the illuminated buildings