Being in another country is a different kind of lonely. After everything else dissipates, I am still glad we had London.
Maybe drunk on whiskey on a hostel room bed wasn’t how I had envisioned it happening, but happen it did.
I remember the next day, in a record shop in Soho, you said “about last night…”
“I know you have a girlfriend,” I said, “and it won’t happen again.”
Looking back, I wonder if I actually believed those words as I spoke them, or if I just wanted the impossible to be true.
Being in another country is a different kind of lonely. What I remember most is the rain in London.
I shared your umbrella, allowing me to snuggle close to you under the guise of escaping the raindrops.
No one could know about our secret romance.
If you could call it a romance. Being in another country is a different kind of lonely.
.for Jason.
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