Arcadia

32

Of odd times, I'll sit in the dark and write you a letter. A letter of a summer that once was, a summer of us, a time when we'd been in love, of fallen leaves and pretty words. I've long since learnt that love runs free in the sultry air of this city, a love that keeps you alive, that puts you to sleep like the lullabies of a time we've long since forgotten.
We were two beautiful birds, singing songs of summer soon to be, building our nests, only to leave it at the first gusty wind. Some species of birds, I've heard, build their nests every spring only to break it apart later that year. I have heard of bedouins in distant deserts who build their homes around bodies of water, only to leave when they have exhausted all of what it has to offer. They set out again, looking for new homes, to write new stories, to find new things to love. So will we.