Sunday, 6 December 2015

Land of the Living

When you wish to forget what your waking moments and thoughts are. But you cannot? You may as well put it away elsewhere until it returns again.

For these moments are so beautiful, treasured. Tragic. Yet, they take a little piece of you away with them. Not so much as you would notice. They chisel carefully, considered, measured. Careful not to leave visible upset to those other naked eyes. Yet you, the I, is left so awares. Quite frankly, its yours.


The weight of your arms, draped around me. Like knot they twist around my waist, holding gently to my shoulder, the other to a hip. Steady breaths, a sleep that is sound and even. As you exhale, I feel the motion in my body and the air lightly dancing on my neck. A sigh of content escapes your lips. Our scents light on our skin, creating us. Home. How many mornings I had woken and looked forward to this being as many mornings as there are sunrises. Time for us. Pressed warmth fills every inch of my back. It's comfortable familiarity. It's my safety.

And then there's this moment. This pause. Where everything goes so painfully slow. I'm given that unwanted power to put it all back in its place. It's just, I have to let you go, again. Give you back. Not chase it, let you come and go as has been. I tell myself this wasn't real, this isn't living.

So you're gone. Bed empty, warmth dissipated. The sense of you lingers briefly, and yet suddenly slipped away. But there's too much that tells me, reminds me, pulls me; that lets me know it was always both of us. Never just me. Nor just you. Always tracing back to us. These moments can also give us pieces back. Albeit brief.


Until whenever next time is.