As twilight breaks the day, the Irish cabin begins to glow with light. It’s on the side of mountain, but details like that don’t change the fact that I was covered in chills and my body ached. With no heat in the cabin, I had looked for some quiet comfort among the trees the night before. Death spoke to me in those moments as I fell asleep and waited for the next day to come.

Telling the story in first person gives it all away. You know I’m still here today. You’ll soon know I woke up the next day and cycled 70 miles in the pouring rain and wind. But you weren’t there. You can’t taste the salty air on an empty Irish road that soon turned to dirt. I can’t bring you back there either.

But then there’s the here and now. I’m wrapped up with her. My hands explore her body and give names to the places I go to most often. It’s both familiar and exotic at the same time. They exist at the intersection between the here and now and the places in your mind you’ve never fully unlocked.

It’s hard to name the curves of a woman. To give a name to the way she sits and covers her face before she laughs. It’s hard to look into blue eyes that radiate for you and give them a name that doesn’t sound insignificant to the task. That’s how they name places of hope, but I’m in this for more than hope. Something deeper than hope.

I press my lips against her high cheekbones. The ridge against my lips is the trail. Sign posts without names, but doesn’t make them insignificant. I keep one eye open as I watch her eyes widen at the recognition of the moment and then she closes them. That quiet surrender to my touch brings me closer to her and I notice for the two thousand and forty second time her two largest freckles. They’re on her right arm and feel untouchable; yet, I could paint their outlines against the ground like dead bodies at a crime scene.

There’s a difference between showing up at the crime scene and being a witness. Smelling the sticky night air with lights flashing and bouncing off of every surface feels different than being there before the chaos began. There’s a role for everyone there. The grieving mother and the cameraman. The group of kids too young to understand. The detective taking interviews. But that’s all afterwards. Tomorrow morning everything will fall back in place and the mailman will walk these same streets shortly after the garbage man makes his rounds.

Being at the scene before the crime is committed unlocks something in you. It could have been you, but you waited for the light to change and then the whole day changed around you. There’s no rush to leave, but it feels unfair to stare into the eyes of those that are there. You want to step in and be a part of the scene unfolding, but you feel a bit like an intruder upon the stage.

The choice is yours. You can watch from as close as you’d like and get lost in the scene unfolding as you feel the moment grow until it’s gone. The grieving mother and the cameraman must go home at some point. The lights that painted the streets turn off and one by one. The squad cars find another place in town to gather. The bench still warm from where you sat will remain, holding the memories you’ve gained.

...

I’ve always loved how he’s written. From his first posts that I stumbled upon to the latest things he writes for me privately. We’re currently exploring how other people can fit into our dynamic and, since we met on an r4r subreddit, I wanted to share his writing here. He and I would love to hear from you if anything about it resonated with you.