Felt before, moons ago, in a black felt coat on the edge of the Rathmines canal. That night gave way to fate more than most do, when a boy you resisted latched on to the small of your back, parasitic, and lingered in ways you couldn't have expected nor cared for. A cold walk through the night slinging his mother's bicycle. Felt then, undeniably, and recorded on your yellowed paper, a most defiant and brief manifesto: love is the answer.
Which is why, many vague rotations later, you regret nothing done it's name. Few then marked your leaving, and fewer still before that cast a glance at the door swinging shut behind you three months previously. This time you were careless. You gave away too many secrets and shared too many dreams, and now risk leaving coy fingerprints and footholds in memories you never meant to cloud in the first place. (Never tell anyone anything!) It's strange now. Full circle and the same place calls me back, a curve in the pavement, twilight on the hill. In a way I wish I hadn't shared it with anyone, my sad sanctuary. Tennyson on the bench in winter, dampening names of the deceased, lichens and palesun. As long as I gaze at Waterlow sunset I know what the danger is and know I did survive.
So then maybe for now I will be quiet again. I will get better at cooking and sleeping and self-care and take up yoga and greenery. Put pictures on the mantelpiece and poems under the bed and fall asleep contented in the arms of someone who cares (because somebody does, they do, there are no illusions.) Because there will come a time again, when the same three words laugh in my ear and lick my neck and taunt my name as I put my coat back on. An affliction, to so ceaselessly dive into dark. To kiss the wind when it touches my face, and to do what I've always done.