You are the song of the afternoon rain, one which releases us into the unseen promises of the future. The warmth of a blanket keeps me from tiptoeing across the hall into your arms. Arrests me from feeling you. Never realized how the storm affects our sleep at night. Never knew that an odd note out of tune would make me forget how a song truly sounds like. I have said this before, how you are a melody to behold. I have said this before, how translating your gaze remains a task.
“What of the eyes?”
“They are charming.”
Words fail me, for the seasons have been swift. This is no mere setback, it is a shell to step out of, an invisible wall of air to stop believing in, and your music helps because it compels. Your caress speaks of a Sunday, and you taste of caramel. I had written of life in the mist, and how spurts of red had taken me to heights unexplored. Lights are blinding when I’m home again from work, torn between which vinyls to play.
Teach me what it feels like to fly high, without a care of the world. Teach me what it is like to pick the reds from the yellows, and how to roll in the bloody blues blooming in the green. I know you swim and I know you run. I know you have the skill to kill time, can I quote Lorde and kill it with you?
“What is it?”
“The persistent realization of how magical your raw sense of being is.”
A climb comes with an occasional gasp for air. A dance routine comes with a misstep. A song comes with a miss, a stare interrupted by a blink and you with dents to kiss. I trip for the freckles. I trip for the lock of hair which insists on falling over your bright eyes. I trip for the meticulousness of you choosing wine over red, and peach over pink.
I trip for the fact that I won’t have to get you flowers, but perhaps a potted plant just because it makes more sense. I’m disarmed, and disrobed, and in awe of how wide open the sky suddenly seems – spread all over as if it has always been so – teasing us to leap and how.
Intoxicated, I hold your hand and take it all in.