We used to break in to the grounds of country houses at night, run through the lawns in the darkness barefoot to feel the cold of the grass as it soaked the bottoms of our jeans. As we crouched on the edges of long drained moats, you would tell me the words that you had discovered that week, chosen for the way they rolled out of your mouth and allowed you to taste them in the air, words like susurrus, tangible, androgynous. I would ask you for the meanings and you would explain in hushed tones, inventing odd sentences to make me smile at you for as long as I could. We climbed the tallest trees we could find, calling to each other from the branches and swinging down again to land as close as we could to one another, feeling our heartbeats slow for a moment as we stood watching each other in the silence. I told you how when I was a kid I believed that statues came to life at night, and afterwards when we came across one we would bow and start imaginary conversations, eyes flashing at one another as we tried not to laugh. We created another world for ourselves, so wonderfully different in its finery that we felt anything could happen there. One night we dressed in evening wear and found the most secluded place we could, the centre of a maze on an old abandoned estate. We took a picnic, dined in candlelight on the rough brick of the path, and watched the stars through the gaps in the trees. We were so perfectly happy that we could have stayed there forever; hands gripping so desperately I felt like my heart would burst.