I remember you. The sound of you, the quietness. Your hand covering my neck, the calmness. I remember the way your brown eyes peeked through the linen in an attempt to catch me sleeping. I never was, because being awake was better than missing out on any moments with you. I’d lie there and watch dust collecting on the beam of light through the hotel window and tell myself I’d never get up until I watched all of it disappear. Or until the sun set—whichever came first.
If I could bottle up a feeling of heaven, it would be this. I remember.
I catch a glimpse of your legs wrapped around mine in the mirror. Our minds in tune, our bodies in sync. The images living inside of my head are so pure and beautiful. Until they make their way through my veins and the pain starts to set in. I’ll never forget. I’ll not forget the way seconds stopped accumulating in your presence. You were greater than them. More powerful than time. More fragile to me, too. But I cannot find you anymore. You are no longer flesh, but only a feeling. Years pass and my eyes paralyze me anytime I catch the dust in a light beam. How do I get still enough to even notice something so insignificant if I’m not with you? I used to simultaneously feel your heart on my cheek, but now all I feel is windburn. It eerily feels just like the pain in my veins. The cold air is everywhere, no matter the season. It’s always raining inside. If you are not here, why does my body hang onto the feeling of you?
Why do I breathe circles in slow motion while the world makes giant leaps forward in chaos?
You’re somewhere; anywhere. But I am just here.