If I could rewrite our story, I would write it in this way: a too small apartment in Brooklyn, no war. Afternoon sunlight coming in through the windows. You stretched out on the bed, the sheets bunched up around your bare chest. An arm held out, a smile on your face and a low voice just for me. "Come to bed."

If I could rewrite our story, we would already be dead, curled around one another in the same grave.

10 tracks