You can’t fall in love with every place you stay, the same way you can’t fall in love with every beautiful stranger on the street, even when they somehow become a part of you without you meaning for it to happen. I had this bad habit of breaking my heart, so I looked for Brahms to fill up the empty spaces, the same way I looked for you in the barren woods on all those restless winter evenings. Chasing, always chasing after that elusive feeling, the sound of your fingers at 4 AM catching on the edge of the guitar strings, leaving track marks and dissonance in my dreams. It must have been then, in that strange, unsettling sort of way, I began wondering what you were like in the early mornings – hair touseled, voice still rough and fucked-out raspy – or how you liked your coffee – watery with no sugar. I never minded any of it though. I’ve always thought that the warmest place in this city is where you sleep at night.