Spot

Now, indeed it does feel unreal. The day. Whole of it. I perish into moments after midnight, compulsively forcing the assumption, that it was probably a well concocted stretch of illusion. But then, there's you. 

The hours, the sundry minutes in each, did tick by. We kept an intermittent track of time. Sometimes, it felt like a whale, sometimes like a firefly. All I can truly recall is asking our hearts to slow down. Keep in more blood, hold on. Expand every moment and live through it, at a molecular level.

Also, I remember paper cups in the shades of orange. The yellow hue of the sidewall. The crumple in the bed sheet. A mild odor of smoke in the air. Rustle of autumn leaves outside the window. The sweat underneath arms. And crevices of knees and ankles. All curves of flesh, observed, loved. Black spots, counted. Birthmarks kissed. Secrets exchanged. Tales of the months of separation, told. Every bodily shame, uncovered. 

You, seated on scanty pieces of furniture. The look held in your eyes. The wait, in our breaths. Fast expiring patience. Like we had waited for years and decades. To be there, together, at that spot. 

Come what may, it is always good to know. That there always will be such very specific spots. Wherein, we will find ourselves. Locked, faithfully in dimensions of time and space. In the shade of a certain tree, or by a certain window. And inside those, we are in absolute seclusion. Only the scope of the immediate periphery would affect us. Everything exterior to that boundary would lose the capacity to touch us. Hinder us, from being our soulful true selves.