CREATIVE NON-FICTION

City with a K 

You broke my heart. 
A shrug. 
I left you. 
A frown. 
But you’re not done with me yet, are you? 
A grin. 
I grin back.  

Amagerbro, The Garden 

There are more than 505 ways to say goodbye, and I have yet to figure out how to do so. What I do know is this: I will always return to you. 
	When the liquor warms me and the night borders on morning, I see you and smile. I lean out the open window, seven stories in the sky, and take a long pull from a Marlboro Red. Smoke drifts back into the room, but I do not mind; I love it. The smell soothes me. It smells of you. 
	A white cat weaves itself between my legs, eyes of two shades, and I blink. Happiness was found during these times; I just didn’t know it yet. 
	I wish to come back to you. My heart and soul, my mind; anything that truly defines a person was lost within you. And it stays, engraved between cobblestones, twisted in the smoke of a drunk’s cigarette. The ghost of my mother roams through the streets, and I hear my father’s laughter, many years past, on the wind. 
	You are always one thought away from the front of my mind, the memory of you living permanently behind each notion I have. My tongue is always a few vowels short, a few mere utterances away from breathing your name into existence once more. You taint my mind, every second of every day. And I may have left you in this life, my darling, but you will remain with my soul evermore, for you do not simply hold a piece of it, you are part of me.
	And there you are, with those ever-changing eyes and slippy grin. Blink and you’ll miss it. 
	And I dream externally, for I see you, and you move against me, and the world breathes and sighs.

Islands Brygge, The Docks 

When darkness has fallen and the air is cold, I find myself walking the pier. “The Girl from Ipanema” plays, over and over, like a ritual of sorts. One that cannot be broken. As the sax croons, my pulse settles, and it is me in the city. The city and me alone. We are one in such hour.  I see him, and he gives me a slow nod of acceptance. At last, I think, a sheepish grin tugging at my cheeks. I have waited years for this, countless years. Such yearning stretches back to my childhood, back before I can even remember. 
	My mother lived here, just down one of these narrow streets. Some nights, she walks with me, an outline of a silhouette from twenty years past. Other nights, she vanishes, for I prefer to be alone with you.  
	K. Will you take me back? I know you despise religion, but by God, have I missed you. I fell in love with you, came of age at your side. We discovered all things: the bad and the sinful, the joyous and euphoric. Years with you, my dear—my best years.  
	At twenty, I wandered the streets in a trance, the nights bleeding together beneath a starless cityscape. At twenty-two, I screamed to the heavens and cursed your name, the world seen through the bottom of a bottle. And at twenty-three? You watched as my heart broke, slowly and then rapidly, like a fever refusing to break. Before long, my soul no longer resembled me; the mirror distorted to show another, and when there was nothing left, I lost my mind.  
	And what did you do? You laughed, smoke hissing through grated teeth. Twenty-four: It was at this age I left you. Not three months later, I was gone. 
	However, I cannot lie. Neither does the truth comfort me. I will admit I think of you, more often than I would like. Often unbidden, memories riddle my dreams, and they linger still, even with eyes wide open.  
	A song is heard in passing and I blink and I am suddenly with you, my younger self once more. Do I crave her or you? She was a naive thing, but beautiful for it. I came to you damaged, left broken, and return in pieces. Can you put me back together, my love? 

Helsingør, The Sinner’s Palace 

In my dreams, I stand next to cannons and gaze out upon the tide and see the shores of Sweden. A castle stands at my back, tan brick walls daunting against grey skies. A single red and white flag flaps high above a tower with a snap. The wind is strong today.  
	I am inside, sitting in a great hall. A chessboard rests before me, and I lose, not for lack of skill, but concentration. For my eyes cannot seem to leave yours, and my mind is adrift. My thoughts float and carry as if on a swift-moving river, refusing to dock, refusing to ease.  
	I look down to see the veins in my left hand, green and bulgy against skin, and I realize with dull interest that I am aging. This does not sadden me, the prospect of my future demise.  What saddens me is as I decompose with time, you live on. You continue to pulse and thrive and breathe, out of reach. My fingers twitch at the notion of touching you again, just once more, and my heart shutters. 
	You are looking at me now, eyes wide, and one can see a life in them. 

Fredericksburg, The Irish Pub 

On the west side, I dance. All in black, and you love me for it. You have been waiting for me, and I for you. I light a fag, and you grin and I drink, and as the room fills with liquor and smoke, happiness is found once more. At least until the dawn. And as the clock strikes four, you begin to sleep. The noise quiets, and night begs affection.  
	I knew I loved you before I had ever touched you. My mind did not, but my soul did. 
	I see you. I always saw you. And darling K, how you haunt me. Yet you do so beautifully, to such a degree, I find it near impossible to despise your ghost. I foster it, stroke the shape with a tender hand, give it life, if only to see you once more.  
	I laugh when you come to me, tilt my head back with a wild grin. For the pain is sharp, but my fondness for you? Sharper still. And sometimes, I play the joker. Tell myself I wait for another, humor the notion of another life in another place with another person. Yet despite myself, I still wait for you.  
	I loved you with a vindication I did not think possible on this earth. Now, I am a little bit broken. Some parts don’t fit together anymore, and my smile is lopsided. Can you still love me? 

Vesterbro, The Slaughterhouse 

Cigarettes are best smoked in the AM, the smell of stale beer ripe on the nose. The meatpacking district is alive on a Friday night. Bars and pubs and clubs pulsing with drugs and booze, everyone trying to get their fill.  
	I am drunk. The world grows and shrinks and twists before my eyes, an ever-changing masterpiece of bleeding light against night. Despite my state, one notion fills my mind. I want you. I need you. All I have ever wanted, all I have ever desired, was to be yours. And for you to be mine.  
	I loved you so much, my love would turn violent, harsh and cruel in the way it was portrayed. At times, I would gaze upon you and my heart would soften. At others, it would lurch with annoyance and demand retribution. Aided by the drink, the latter times needed no persuasion.  
	Come back to bed. I will light the candle. I want to see those dark eyes flickering in the gloom. 

Valby, The Old Railway Road 

I lay in the darkness and stare at the ceiling, listening to you hum. 
	One can hear the trains from where I rest. Every few minutes, one passes, their wheels giving off a sound that resembles a screeching heartbeat. To this day, I close my eyes and hear it—a repetitive symphony of longing and loss. There were others after you, and before you, and more to come still I am sure, but I will always whisper your name into the night. 
	My eyes close, and I picture the movie theatre, the vintage one with paintings of film characters on the walls. There is a bridge nearby, one that spans the tracks from above. Do not go there, I wish to scream, take myself by the shoulders and shake. Do not go there, for you will never return.  
	Despite the warning, I travel down the road. When the branches are bare and the rain pounds and winter ends, I see you once more in this place of spires. I smile; you look well.  
	You smile back.