Late one winter’s night, basking in the candle light of your apartment. The wine is by your side and refills come in torrents and they’re frequent, and relentless. Slow jazz fills my head but the volume’s too low and I’m straining to hear it. The lyrics are a blur, but I think it’s an old love song of heartache in Germany. She met my eyes and said “I know it’s only early, but it feels late and I don’t feel so good.” There’s a photo by your bed of the two of us in Europe and it scares me to think of how many different men would’ve cast their eyes upon it on a Sunday morning. When we sat on the curb outside my sister’s house, "Did you really think I loved you? Are you that optimistic, or are you just that fucking naive?” you asked me.
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Arrows - All Passwords are Brisbane