You breathe in three times. Exhale once.
Your lungs fill up, then empty again; your nose catches the scent. A little bitter, yet sweet and salty.
Your lashes flutter at the beam light coming in through the window. It penetrates your skin warming the blood flowing in your capillaries.
My fingers study the surface of the bedsheet. The intricate ornamentation of its thin threads feels rough to my sensitive fingertips. The cream-coloured textile has absorbed this morning.
I wish I could conserve it. Stop the flow of time for a small piece of this fabric. Even just a shred. Something to preserve this moment. Something to bring me back here.
Where in the orange rays of sun the dust motes its waltz. Painstakingly slow dance. When the only sound interrupting the silence is the murmur of the street. The hiss of engines and the friction of tyres against the asphalt. Far away. Isolated by layers of worlds.
And your breath. So inconsistent. Deafeningly loud. Pulsating.
The velvet of your skin hums under my fingers. The bumps of your moles are almost obstacles on a running track. I’m in no hurry.
Time is relative, you say. “When two stars collide, their dance can feel eternal to them. But for us, it’s just a blink of an eye.” A hopeless romantic.
A thought makes you furrow. Just for or a split second. You’ve swept it away faster this time.
Firm, rough, yet soft, I am sinking into it. In your hair the colour of the late summer sun. If only I could swim.
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