You in my car. Your hand on my leg. Turning the corner. Going back down again. Sunday afternoon. The rugby final. BB cream and Maybelline. Everything we wanted and all that other dreaming too difficult to ask about.

Cheap birthdays. Hot nights. Splitting the bill. Losing my mind. Talking to you from Florence that night. Flatmates. Big mistakes. Missing the connection. Chasing the flight. Someone always leaving, someone always left behind.

The washing, the drying. The calls we never made. Your friend’s band on at 11:45. Blue Powerade. Gum rubs in back corner pubs. Footy on TV. Some guy in bracelets. African disco music. Polyester blazers on the coat hook. Block heels. Shin splints. Drunk on a Tuesday. Everyone getting over it.

Moving on. Moving up. Sheryl Sandberg. Snapchat. Why hasn’t he text back. Bedroom floors. Marks on the wall. Friends like bones. Brandy pours. Wet tents. Long weekends. Diving into the deep end.

Not hearing from you. Meeting strangers and mistaking it for fate. Trying to keep up. Losing it behind. Taking it too fast. Getting good. Being bad. Bridesmaiding in vineyards. Wondering where you are. Sundays that’d go on forever if they could.

Meeting the parents. Wondering who you are. Waking up on someone’s floor. Doing it once. Trying all over again. Chips at the train station. Leaving the city. Opening up. Breaking up. Missing things. Going again.

You, turning to me at the end of it all, on the footpath saying, I don’t want to stop — I’m afraid if I do, I’ll miss it all coming at once.