We walked along the water, and the sky grew dark.
Animated, as always, he told me of a house he'd found: delapitated, empty.
He told me of how he found a bird there. How he stood, riveted, by a trapped bird of prey, and then by the beating fury of its escape.
He found also a barometer.
Mercury probably, decades old, like the vaulted beams of the ceiling, and broken, like the thick glass of the window panes.
Somehow I think we talked as if it'd be our house, as if we'd tranfigure that structure and restore a pulse.
That in a rose tinted time, we'd sit close in front of a snapping fire, while snow and wind bit outside. That in summer we'd pick fruit, and hunt, and fish for big ruby fleshed salmon.
But maybe that was only in my head.

Maybe in reality we'll never share anything more than a few sweet evenings. When he said 'we', maybe he didn't mean me.
And maybe in reality, I will only ever know the inside of that empty house, by looking within myself.