The thunderstorm made me think of you. I stepped out of my overheated living room and onto the warm patio. I saw the lightning in the distance. It took a moment before I heard the thunder. And I smiled. The first drops of rain hit my head, and I looked up at the sky. I spread my arms out to the sides. I felt every raindrop kiss me. And I smiled. I raised my hands, palms up, and let the rain soak me. If someone watched me, they might have mistaken me for a crazy woman. And maybe they are right. But I was also glowing from within. Burning with a fierce passion for life. And a yearning for the man I carry in my heart.
One moment, I was happily dancing in the rain,
The next I was crying, cowering in my shower’s corner.
The manic moments got fewer while the depressive episodes grew longer every time. Rationally, I knew that it was all in my head. I knew that I was allowed to live and to love and to accept affection too. But during the depressive moments, I couldn’t remember those things; I couldn’t hear them. The voices in my head telling me that I am a waste of space or that I don’t matter, they were louder than any reason or sense. And they hurt. So much. Every time a little more. I tried to silence them with music. I tried to mum them with positive thoughts. I even tried to cut them out of my skin and singing them to sleep with alcohol and pills. Nothing worked.
And now I sat here in the shower hiding in the corner, naked and shivering.
These fragile and frail moments were my secret. But I am not sure how well I hid it.
I read in a book that we need to talk and speak up to remind our minds that we are real and alive. I was thinking about that under the cold shower spray. Sobbing, I bit the skin on my arm. The gesture was not to hurt me, but to feel and root my overwhelmed self. I do that too during sex, but that’s more to avoid making too much noise. That’s a different subject.
I watched the water run down my legs in rivulets, little rivers of sorrow. It was a mix of the shower spray, my tears, and, let’s face it, snot was in the mix too. But I was too far gone to care. I tried remembering what had triggered this explosion of emotions, but I couldn’t remember. And it agitated me even more. I forgot so much. Was I too focussed on myself, or not enough? I was just trying to stay alive! The lack of understanding, of meaning, of connection, mixed with insomnia, abject loneliness, and solitude – it was killing me. Or maybe, maybe I was killing myself. Self-loathing, self-destructive, absent from my self.
The water kept caressing the goosebumps all over my body. I hugged myself tighter and bit my skin harder. I looked up to the ceiling. And when I looked down at my knees again, I felt empty. As if this was not me anymore. As if someone had found a switch to turn my emotions off. My sobbing stopped. I got up and turned to water off. Empty. Just going through the motions. As if it was not me. The lights were still on, but no one was at home anymore. I was a robot. A puppet on my mind’s strings. I grew calm but exhausted. Tired. So so tired.
I grabbed my towel and dried off without much care. Heading to my bedroom, I sat down on the mattress, naked as I was; grabbed my pillow – the one I cuddle at night, and rolled myself into a position that made me as small as possible. Fetal position.
I remember thinking that I was not thinking anymore. And then I drifted off.
In the middle of the night, I woke up because I was trembling and felt cold. I covered myself with the sheets and fell into a dreamless slumber. The next time I woke up, it saw the morning light illuminating my bedroom. I felt rested but hungover from the heavy emotions I had felt the night before. I had the image in my head of what a pitiful sight I had been in the shower. Everything else was still a bit foggy.
But as I said, these moments of vulnerability and of my fragile mind being on full display are my secrets. Just mine. No one will ever know the truth.
There was something on my arm; a bruise was forming, the skin was changing colours, reminding me of what I had done.
In sane moments, I wonder why I can’t be normal. Wouldn’t it be easier to be detached from myself more often? Who knows? Who cares? In the end, it doesn’t matter.
We live. We die. And everything we feel in between is not real for anyone but us.
Agent Fresco – Pyre
The studio version can be found on the absolute masterpiece called “Destrier” (2015).
The Icelandic band is one of many gems from the small Scandinavian island. Their singer, Arnor Dan, has easily one of the most versatile voices and vocal ranges in his genre. Dave Grohl (Nirvana, Foo Fighters) called Agent Fresco’s drummer, Hrafnkell Örn Guðjónsson, the best out there. Every member of this band is exceptional. And their music is very awesome.
Highly recommended. And look at this beautiful orange vinyl.
I yawn and stretch my back before I put my head back on your shoulder. There is something about that perfect light on an autumn morning. My fingers draw lazy patterns on your chest, tickling you here and there. You pull me closer until we kiss. We don’t have any obligations. Lockdown is still going strong, and we are living in our fantasy bubble – you and me. Your hand feels warm on my skin.
You pull away with a grin, and I watch you as you walk to the bathroom. I like how comfortable you are in your skin. When we met, you weren’t comfortable at all. You were shy about the extra kilos you are carrying. I never cared about that. You don’t bother closing the door and what used to be disgusting in other partnerships seems normal with you. It’s not as if I am watching you. At least not while you are in the bathroom. But I am not appalled either. Everything flows naturally between us. Nothing to hide. You wash your hands and come back to the bedroom/living room/kitchen – it’s all in one. You are oblivious to my thoughts. I can’t stop grinning, and I hope that you come back to bed. But you are not. Instead, you sit at the piano. Naked as you are.
You put your hair in a tie and bow your head. A lock falls out, and you push it back behind your ear. I know that it won’t stay there. You know it too. I keep observing you. Your fingers glide over the keys without pushing down. There is no sound. You close your eyes, and I know you are zoning out. You are drifting off into your creative space. It is as if you know exactly how the song you are not playing will sound. And, I guess you really know. There is music in your veins.
I sit up on the bed, covering myself with the sheet. It’s something I have seen in many movies before. From the nightstand, I grab my journal and pen. They are always close by in the hopes of some creative input. I haven’t written much since I first got off the plane and into your life. There is no urgency to write anything of substance, and yet, I want to immortalise this moment somehow. I notice that I left a scratchmark on your shoulder. The skin is red, not bloody, just red. And maybe it stands out because you are very pale.
You turn around and look at me. I want to take a photo of you. You are smirking; through the stubble covering your cheeks and chin, I can see your dimple. There is only one. You haven’t shaved since I came for a visit. I like this look on you. Completely relaxed.
This was unplanned. I was supposed to stay for one night and two days. It has turned into four weeks due to a surprise hard lockdown and all flights out being cancelled. Four weeks of you and me in a tiny apartment. I am happy that I am here. And you seem happy too.
You cock your head to the side, and more of your hair leaves the ponytail. I look you straight in the eyes. Something has happened between us. Something neither of us expected.
I push my journal and pen away again. I will not write. Most of my prose sprung from sadness and melancholia. I’m not feeling any of those right now. I push the sheet away and move past you to the kitchenette. You slap my butt, and I squeal. I fill a glass with water, take a sip and go back to you, offering you my glass. You take it and put it on a stack of papers. Then you pull me against you. Your head against my chest, my chin on your head. I sigh. This feels like home. A perfect moment that can never be erased. I want to laugh it off, but I feel strong in your arms. I feel connected to your soul; I snort at that thought. You raise your head to look at me, and I shake my head. We stay like this, in silence. And the sun keeps bathing us in a warm and perfect light.
I used to be a forgotten moment, a never-taken breath. I used to be an afterthought. But now, I am a memory that can never be erased. A dream behind your open eyes. A skipped heartbeat at night.
The following is a post I just shared on IG 💜❤💜❤💜
It’s Friday (I think). Let me tickle your memory for a moment. I am an author who published 5 books since 2018. And they are all ready to be devoured by your hungry minds. There are two options to get your hands on a copy of these masterpieces. Either on Amazon as paperback and ebook or from my blog (link in bio). If you buy your paperback from the blog, you can pay via PayPal, and your copy will be signed with a handwritten note from yours truly.
Every word in these books was written by me. And every cover picture was taken by me too. It’s a complete solo project, created with lots of passion and love. Never perfect, but always real. A lot like me.
Out of the Dark and Into the Light: a poetry collection. It’s a mostly fictitious journey through the year 2020.
A Life in Frames: short stories and flash fiction. In this book, I am trying to showcase my writing style.
Heart of Stone: a romantic novel
Drowning in a Sea of voices: a poetry collection
Unquiet Minds: a poetry collection. This was the first time I ever wrote my real name under my writing and I was a nervous wreck when I published it.
That dream again. I am at work sitting on the floor with the babies, playing. My phone rings. I often don’t take your calls; you know that. But this time, I am in a good mood. I just want to tell you to call later. I take the call while I walk outside of our little space. But it is not your voice that’s asking for me. It is your brother. I am confused at first, trying to understand how and why he is calling when you always said that I am your best-kept secret. “He passed away,” your brother says, and I nod as if he was seeing me. “We will issue a statement today, but I thought you should know. He talked about you. He loved you.” I nod again, say thank you, and drop my phone. It just slides out of my hand. I drop to my knees too. There is no sound. No strength, just tears and an unbearable pain that breaks my heart. My colleagues are concerned; they don’t know my emotional side, not like this. And I can’t speak. I just whisper your name. I wake up with a racing heart. There is no missed call. There is no statement on Facebook or any other social media. I take a deep breath and realise that I miss you. A lot. I am not ready to lose you.
(1169 words. 24minutes writing time)
A couple of shaky breaths is all I can muster before I am pacing the length of the hallway again. I rub my hands over my face, trying to soothe myself with the touch, but it doesn’t help. I shake my head in disbelieve. My hands reach for my face again, but this time, they run across my eyes, over the forehead, and through my hair. I contemplate pulling at the long strands, but that wouldn’t help the issue either. The nervous energy in me is trying to bring me down; my entire body is buzzing. And then you appear from nowhere, really. You put your hand on my arm, but I have to shake it off. I cannot be touched right now, or I will fall apart. But you know me too well. You know exactly what I need.
“Stop!” you order. I want to move, but I know this tone in your voice. Usually, you reserve it for the bedroom, but it seems to work outside too. I shake my head and look at you with pleading eyes. I want you to stop this, to make this go away. You step closer, invading my private space. I feel like running, like running away. It’s not because of you, but I am afraid to be touched. I am searching for an exit, for a way to get out of this situation; at the same time, I want you to help me; I need you to make this go away. You put your hands on my shoulders, fixing my eyes with a glare. I see understanding and something stern – you will not tolerate any of my weird antics. You would never hurt me; I know that, but you have a way to calm me down that always works. Your hands run down my arms until you are holding my wrists. You tighten your grip. It is not painful, it just stops me from moving, and my mind is not racing because it is focused on your hands around my wrists and how that feels. It feels warm. And tight. Pulled together. The skin on your hands is rough and calloused because of your day job—manual labor.
“Breathe!” you order. Part of me wants to defy you and hold my breath; the other part of me is grateful for the guidance. But I don’t comply. I am overthinking until your right hand tightens and releases its grip around my wrist. You raise an eyebrow, and I begin to panic. Please don’t let me go, I want to say, but there are no words. There are too many thoughts in my head.
“Breathe!” you order again. And I do. I take a deep breath, so deep that it almost makes me dizzy. You nod your head once, and it is all the encouragement I need to exhale and inhale again. I know the breathing techniques, but when I am in an agitated state like this, I cannot remember them. I focus on one of the letters imprinted on your t-shirt and repeat my breathing. I am calmer now; my heart isn’t racing or burning in my chest. But I feel fragile and foolish.
When you tug at me, I follow you without taking note of where we are going. I stopped thinking. We enter a room, and I hear the lock click behind us; no one will disturb us here.
There is a painting on the wall, abstract with squares in different shades of blue and purple. And as I am trying to understand the piece of art in front of me, I feel your lips on my neck. I sigh and turn my head to give you better access. Your hands find my breasts, massaging them through the layers of clothes. I bite my lip to silence the moan that wants to escape my throat. One of your hands wanders further down. And I like where this is going. I can feel not only my own arousal growing but yours too. For a brief moment, I wonder if having sex now is a good idea, and it makes me chuckle – there is only one answer to that question. We make short process of pushing the hindering clothes down and aside. You grip my wrists behind my back and push me against the wall next to the painting I inspected moments ago.
“Palms flat against the wall!” you order. With a grin, I oblige. I am too far gone now. Everything I feel is too intense and not intense enough. With one hand, you hold me in place, and with the other, you enter me. The position and our pants around our ankles make moving a bit weird, but you still reach the most important places in me. I am afraid to be too loud again and bite my arm. It’s the only place I can reach to stifle my moans. You fill me deeply. In and out. Faster and faster. Harder with every thrust. Our thighs slap against each other, creating an obscene soundtrack, and I can’t stop moaning and smiling. You are sucking my neck, breathing heavily, all the while, you keep my hands pinned above my head, and the rhythm of your hips drives me nearly insane. I feel you growing inside of me, and I hear your breath changing. You swallow your moans while I let my out freely now. “Cum with me!” you order. But this time I can’t comply. I cannot orgasm like this. Not in this position. I think about faking it, but then I am surprised with your own orgasm filling me. Your grip around my wrists becomes almost painful, and Your legs are trembling. A strangled noise leaves your lips as you withdraw from me. You urge me to turn around, and the moment I face you, you attack my mouth with a kiss.
The end of the kiss sobers me. We separate enough to pull our pants back up, and once my belt is in place, the overthinking begins again.
“Don’t,” you say, and I am not sure what you are referring to; too many options. Having sex in a stranger’s office is highly inappropriate.
“Better?” you ask, and I nod because I am.
“The divorce is through?” you ask, and I reply with an unsteady “Yes.”
“Hey babe, look at me!” I raise my eyes to his. “You are free to do whatever you want and to love whoever you want. But I will not leave you. Got it?” I don’t know what to say, because being free is scary. Being left or abandoning is scary too.
“Okay,” I reply nonetheless.
“Ready for the walk of shame?” you ask, and I cannot keep the laughter inside.
“I am,” I say, and he unlocks the door.
As I walk down the steps of the court, watching the man walking in front of me, I realise that he is right. For the first time in my life, I am free.
Five years ago, you entered my life and changed everything. Months of euphoria and months of suicidal depression followed you. I don’t give you credit. Not for the good and not for the bad. It was all in me from the start. We haven’t been in touch since last May, but I never forgot or forget you. You are still under my skin, and that is where you belong.
I am not as influenced by your presence or lack thereof as I once was.
In hindsight, I think I made peace with you when you said I should use cocaine to lose weight, and once achieved, you would make love to me on your piano.
The fantasy of this is beautiful to be honest, but there is one hitch: I am not willing to change for anyone. Not anymore. I will not bend backwards to become something or someone I am not. Love me for the person I am. That was all I ever asked. But I was never enough… And now, I think, finally, I moved on. I still care about you and your well-being but not enough to wait for you.
And so, dear stranger, on our fifth anniversary, I will tell you one last time how much you mean to me and how much I love you. But I will also tell you: goodbye. See you in another life.
I watch her. Daily. I know her routines, and I know when she goes to sleep. I stand on the street, hidden in the shadows, but I see her. I see how she pulls her curtains close. Does she know that I can still see her? I see her silhouette undress. The shirt that glides off her shoulders and how she shakes her head. Her hair falls in long waves down her shoulders. I see how she unclasps her bra, and I wish it would be me doing it. But I am doomed to stay in the shadows. Is she aroused, or is it cold in her bedroom? I would like to taste her breasts. I am sure she is very sensitive, and it would make her moan. She pushes down her skirt, and I long to see her like that. One day I will. I won’t hide forever. Once, not that long ago, I worked up all my courage and asked her for the time when she passed me on her way home. Her icy blue eyes stared at me as if I was the scum attached to her Manolo Blahniks. Her slender fingers brushed the cuffs of her stylish trench coat back and revealed an expensive watch. She answered curtly and was gone before I had processed it. Her voice was deep and raspy. Really sexy. Ever since that day, I imagine her moan my name. Maybe even scream it in ecstasy. One day she will. I am sure about that. I wish I could see more of her than her silhouette. All too soon, she turns off the lights, and her room is bathed in darkness. I wonder if she sleeps naked or if she puts something on when she turns off the lights. One day I will go upstairs and find out.
Why not today?
I managed to get a spare key to her apartment. I stole her best friend’s purse because I knew she had the key. It was too easy. I have never used it before. But I will be using it today. Oh, this is so exciting. I am going to see the woman of my dreams soon. She will be pleased to see me and invite me to stay the night. Of course, we will not sleep. We will be busy making love. Yes, making love – not fuck. She is my only real love. My soul mate. It’s a good thing I remembered to steal some chewing gum this morning at the newsstand. I put a stripe in my mouth and let the minty flavor take away the furry feeling on my tongue and teeth. It’s a struggle to chew because of the many missing teeth in my mouth. She will love that too. I can kiss her with my tongue without too many teeth in the way.
I am already on the right floor. How can she live in a building without security? Every creep can walk up and break into her home. It’s a good thing I am here to protect her. I sit in the shadows of the street lamps every night, and I wait until she turns off all of her lights. It’s just to make sure that she is alright.
Not so long ago, she had a male friend over. She tried to make me jealous. She didn’t even close the curtains. That’s how I know that she has milky white skin, and the aureole of her nipples is a dark shade of red, almost brownish. She’s a natural blonde. She wanted me to see it, and it turned me on so much. That’s how I know that she is waiting for me too. She put on that show for me, and now I am here, putting the key in the lock, and I am ready to surprise her. I try to be as silent as possible. I don’t want to wake her up just yet. I want to surprise her, see her sleep, maybe inhale her scent. I am planning to cut off a little of her hair as a souvenir. She will not be pleased, but if I do it while she’s sleeping, she won’t even notice. I remember where her kitchen is and look through the drawers to find scissors. Her kitchen is not as neat as I would have expected it. The dishes from her dinner are still in the sink, and there is half a glass of wine on the counter. On second thought – she must have left it for me. I drink it in one go and lick the rim of the glass. She drank out of the same glass. Some of her DNA is going over into my bloodstream now. I feel euphoric. She is in me.
In the dark, I have trouble to find the right door, but soon enough, I find it. It’s not closed, and I sneak in. Her breathing is calm and even. Almost hypnotizing. She is only wearing panties. The sheet that must have covered her earlier is a mess and not doing its job well. I bend down over her to smell her. I want to memorize this moment. I let my nose roam over her body, paying particular attention to her genitalia. The scent of woman and sweat arouses me further, and I stroke myself through my clothes. I can’t hold back a moan. She stirs in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake up. She parts her legs, and her slip moves a little to the side. I am sure she did it on purpose because now I can see her most intimate secret place. I am going to taste her tonight. My cock strains against my pants, and I have to free it. I let out another groan when the chilly night air blows over its precum drenched head. I imagine it to be her mouth and her breath on me. Will it ever be more than just a fantasy?
I still clutch the scissors in my hand and remember to cut off one of her locks. When I move closer, my penis touches her shoulder. Her hot skin and her naked body are too much for me to take. I rub myself faster and come all over her breasts and shoulder. Some of my release lands on her face and in her hair. She looks good like that. She is such a beautiful woman christened with my semen. She is mine now. I marked her as mine.
She wakes up, I startled her, and she stares at me with wide eyes. I know that they are blue. I would like to see the color again, but it’s dark in here. Her legs and arms begin to flail in a weak attempt to cover herself. I tell her that I am finally here and that I understood her invitation. I sit down on her bed and feel the mattress dip under my weight. The heat radiating from her body is palpable; even through the layers of my clothes, I can feel her. I run my hand over her torso and pay extra attention to her breast. As I predicted earlier, she likes it when I knead them. She whimpers and whispers, “Please, please,” her voice sounds different from when I asked her for the time, but I guess it’s because she just woke up. My hand wanders further south and comes to rest between her legs. She closes them, trapping my hand over her heated vagina. I stroke it with my thumb. She whimpers again. I let my nose roam over her neck and lick it. She tastes salty and like soap. I love it. It’s intoxicating. But there is something else. It feels like panic. But maybe I only confuse it with the taste of arousal.
She starts to move more. Almost as if she is trying to fight me. But she can’t be fighting me. I love her. She is my soul mate. She pushes me away hard, and I lose my grip on her. She plays hard to get. I smirk at that. I love it when women do that. I get closer to claim what’s mine again, only, this time, she slaps me in the face. That was not nice. Not nice at all. I only want to love her and protect her. “Get away from me,” she screams and slaps me again. I start to wrestle her on her bed and come to lie on top of her. I know that I am a stout man. She can’t get away from me now that I trapped her with my own body, but she catches me off guard when her knee collides with my balls. The pain is blinding me, and I course. I slap her face to make her see sense. To make her stop. The more she fights me, the more I slap her until she is finally lying still. I tell her that I will put on the lights now. She isn’t protesting. I guess she understood that I am here to worship her. To love her.
In the dark, I try to find the light switch. I blink when the bedroom is illuminated. What I see now is not what I have expected to see. She is covered in blood. Her body and her bed are drenched in it. I look at my hands; they are colored crimson from her blood too. Her face looks bloated, swollen. Her eyes are open. Staring at the ceiling. Filled with fear. I didn’t do it. I didn’t want this to happen. I love her. I fall down on my knees and weep. I didn’t want this. The scissors are impaled in her neck. I must have stuck them in while we were fighting. I can’t remember anything.
No matter how many gushing wounds she has on her face and neck and torso, she is still a beauty. I let my hands wander across her body one last time. I want to memorize her and lock those memories inside my mind. Her skin is colder than before, and, strangely, she isn’t breathing, but she looks peaceful. I will miss her, but now, she will be forever mine. It gives me solace.
I get up from the floor and put my limp dick inside my pants again. It’s time to leave and hide back in the shadows. She’s just asleep. Only sleeping. Yes, that’s it; she is resting. Tomorrow I will come back again. Maybe she won’t fight me as much and just lets me in. I know she wants it. I pull the scissors out of her neck and cut a thick lock of her hair off to put it in the pocket of my coat. I don’t need the scissors anymore and drop them on the floor. One last time I kiss her red lips. I expect her to moan or respond in any way, but she stays silent. She must be exhausted. Quietly, because I don’t want to wake her up, I leave her apartment.
It is dark and cold outside. I see that I forgot to turn off her lights, but she will certainly do it herself when she wakes up again. I sit down on a bench nearby and pull out the lock of her hair. It’s soiled in blood, just like my hands and clothes. But it’s okay. It’s her blood, and I will put off washing it off as long as I can. It’s a part of her, after all. I sniff at the hair, and I have an instant boner. Freeing myself from the confines of my pants, I rub myself until I find release.
Tomorrow I will visit her again. The thought of touching her again makes me shudder. I smell my fingers; they still hold the scent of her skin and of her blood. I am made to love her, and soon, she will see it too. And then she will love me too.
No more empty eyes in the mirror glaring back at her. Done with insecurities fueled by people who never listen or don’t care. No more. No more. She wants to be free. But something is holding her back. Yesterday, she was drowning herself in tears and regrets, but not anymore. She puts her hands on either side of the sink and lowers her head. Her hair covers her face like a dark curtain. With a determined and defiant sneer, she throws her head back and looks at her reflection. She has no idea who she is seeing. Is that really her? Has she changed as much as she is accused of having? She feels broken and bruised inside, but none of it is visible on the outside. Her soul is in shards, cutting her from the inside. Broken heart. But her skin is unblemished; the battle scars hidden under layers of life. Her brown eyes scan her face once more. All she ever wanted was human contact. She hates being vulnerable and only rarely shows it, because if she opens up, shares her most profound wants and needs, talks about her opinions and fantasies, it always ends in her being pushed away. She tries to smile. It is only a grimace. She wants to feel alive. And loved. But the real her is not loveable. She tries staring into her soul but doesn’t see anything—only empty eyes in the mirror. And as much as she tries to pretend that everything is okay, nothing is. She is a hostage in her own cage.
This is my contribution to Aaron’s weekly prompts. I don’t participate every week; I am not that creative these days. And it is not much this week either. Just something I improvised when I saw the prompt. Visit Aaron’s site Confusing Middle
It’s 2:45 in the morning, and I am wide awake. This hasn’t happened in a while and I feel how my mood is changing. I am irritated with myself because I am to blame for tonight’s insomnia. I was tired but had an appointment tonight. I thought it would be good to have a cup of coffee. I should have drunk espresso instead. No matter how many espressos (espressi?) I drink in the evening, I always sleep through the night.
Also, it is hot, my partner had too much beer (TMI: his farting keeps me awake), and I need to get up for work in three hours.
I tried avoiding my phone for a long while, but gave up eventually. I probably had 2 hours of sleep so far.
On a positive note, I sold two books, and the more I think about it, the happier I about the release. Just 3 more hours at work, and I will be on leave until August 25th. I bought a dress for a wedding, it is unusually colourful, but I look good in it. Waiting for the first review of my novel.
Most of my thoughts these days revolve about the novel and how readers perceive it.
I should try to catch some sleep.
It is late, and I can’t sleep. You were on my mind these last days. A lot. All the time. It is good that we are strangers right now, but once in a while, I would love it if we were acquaintances again. Ah, stranger. If you only knew what I know. Am I awake in your dreams? Some nights, I dream myself away to you. My head on your chest, your fingers combing my hair. Sweaty from the day, our skin would stick together, and unbothered, we would lead a naked life. Naked body, naked soul. I close my eyes, and I see you. Always yours, “marriage material”
3:32 – goodnight
Who would have guessed five years ago that our dance would still continue? Months of silence, weeks of unconditional love. Who would have guessed? One of the voices in my head insists that it is not five years because we have silent months, and yet… We always find our way back together.
I obviously won’t forget you, why should I? And you can not forget me; why should you?
Whenever things are happening in my life, I want you to know. I want to get in touch and tell you, but I don’t. I hold back. Recently, I learned that I am holding back much more than I thought I was. It’s weird, and yet… I still maintain that you are the only person on this earth who knows me bare. You are also the only person who never judged me, just encouraged me to be the best version of myself I can be. And for that, dear stranger, I love you. And I will continue to feel that way.
Are you there? You used to ask that question. My response was always the same: I will always be there. Promised.