On that first night, the two of us walking the line between sleep and consciousness, we went out into this city’s unfamiliar dark. The reddish maroon of your hoodie melted into the alleyways, so it was hard to keep track of you. We kept walking nonetheless. It was funny that the biggest source of light wasn’t the stars or moon, but the neon of a convenience store draping its glow down the cement. It wasn’t poetic.

We should’ve gone to sleep by then, but the two of us were eager to get out of our cramped stay, to spread our wings. Really, it was you and I was just following; I hadn’t realized how adventurous you were. There were no songbirds at that hour of the night. The street was eerie in the silence of it, especially that playground we went to. Playgrounds are supposed to be loud, aren’t they?

That was all it was, being familiar with something in this place so foreign to us. If I knew playgrounds back home, did I know them here too? It almost seemed like the two of us were back home, except something was different. I was still looking at the playground, the slide, the monkey bars dripping with cold, when you had left. In the dark, your feet looked like they were flying. The whistle of a draft in your clothes was melodic, and it was echoing.  I took out my camera and knelt down to catch you, but didn’t manage to hold on to anything.

I have no photographs of you. You always managed to escape my view.