Isn't this how all great romances begin? I stood under the heavy grey skies of your northern city, in a tiny park between the train stations, waiting for you. And you were so easy to pick out of the crowd: you, tall and elegant: you, in wool coat and stripes. Baby, you ran to me, and I slid my arms around your neck and stood on my toes to kiss you. My hand fit nicely into yours. Our steps synchronized. And the synergy of the city around us, surely moving, surely moving, oblivious to the enormity of what had just transpired between us. Because cities know; steel and glass and neon and all the holy human-imposed order knows there's absolutely nothing special about love.

    It kills me when I think about that first day now. About your long white fingers tracing secrets into the brushed steel of the table (did you think I didn't notice?); about your head cocked at the thirteen degree angle of happiness, propped up in your hand. About you sinking to your knees, as if in supplication, kissing my hip as I washed your hair in the shower. Even the tiniest things slay me - the perfect choreography of the motions you made as you entered your home. Toss the keys on the table. Untie the shoes, leave them by the door. A graceful shrug out of the coat. Believe me when I say your brown eyes, they glowed, and you were such a gentleman that instead of ravishing me when you pulled me into your bed after opening all of the curtains in your bedroom you wrapped your body around mine and held me. And the impossibly tender moments - the sharing of the origin of this scar and the kiss that followed it, the cupping of my cheeks in your hands when you kissed me, your insistence that the breakfast you cooked for me be perfect. You held my hand as I walked down the spine of the leaf sculpture in the dark, convinced that I would fall.

    Everywhere, in every minute of every day, there are people experiencing the exact same thing. There's nothing special or holy about the way animals find each other and then fly apart with equal speed. And there was nothing special about the way we flew apart; there was no fanfare, no warning shot. It just happened, the way sometimes a car hitting another will just happen, or the way a bird will drop out of the sky for no apparent reason. It's tempting to want to apply the clean rules of physics to love but the math just doesn't work and it never will.

    And in my own city, under my skyscrapers taller than yours, my streets filthier and filled with the dirty cacophony of a metropolis in motion, my shuddering shoulders and my tears are nothing special either. You're not in the room below, catching my tears that flood the planks of the floor on your tongue. You're never going to be at my door with apologies on your lips. Our trajectories crossed briefly, and only once, and in that space they will forever remain.

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