the Grind

Like every hug is the last. Like we don't know if this is the one, will we remember the chill in the air, the soft hum of the street, the unspoken words that became our last. I walk across the park to the apartment at the top of the hill and I don't know how many more times I'll do it. The church is steady, lies firmly planted where it should and I steal another glance. Soon, this will all be over. It is dark now, the stars are out but you can't well see them for all the light noise. I don't know how many more times I'll walk those streets, how many more times we will laugh at the bar, how many more times the view over Stockholm town will take my breath away as I roll down the hill to work.

I want you to know that I saw you, that I see you still. I want you to know that I am not, without your smiling eyes in my mind.

That I would not be, if I didn't think we'd walk this street, again.