four days after the rain began, we lay among the long, dripping grass stalks. such an anarchic decision, to hold each other inside of the insect laden grass, grounded in damp and unknown earth, bodies endlessly vulnerable to the october chill that tangled our hair, and the spitting rain that curled it

our blatant, silent audacity in the face of convention, of heaters and fireplaces, of beds and warnings, flaunted our refusal to descend into adulthood. such a docile stand, and yet it held us close within the moment, under the two or three stars that flashed in spite of the fumes of a dirty city, a terribly stiff and glassy-eyed city. had anyone stumbled across our curved and trembling forms that night, such a moment would have been annihilated, tinged in our memories with the stupidity imposed on our by our finder. and we would have become whatever they believed us to be: thoughtless, senseless, pretentious

because no-one found us that night, all we were was: free. all we tasted was a defying of rules, the anarchism of falling in love, in the cold and wet, among the grasslands

to speak would have brought us back to life, revived our awkward teenage existences. we chose to hibernate our rapidly beating blood and bony joints, our rapidly firing minds; we hid, silent, within the elements, rain droplets smattering against our burning bodies, fuelling our quiet rebellion.