fourteen:thirty-three
the slow sway of the lamplight illuminated myriad shades of blue in your eyes, and as you turned your head in my direction i imagined the colors dotting my face. of course, the stories you told failed to capture my attention; instead, i focused on the distant beauty of the stars, eventually asking, “how is it that you dreamt with no lightning bugs to dance around the sky?” as you answered i imaginged you much younger, like a little boy with the words of a man, you said “there are many ways to cope and realizing the impossible is only one.” so soon, i was asking you to join me to exchange a new symphony of songs for your journey and too soon, you were asking to hear old favorites sung by an unfamiliar voice.
so, i sang, for you. they were words i knew by heart, melodies trained by so many forgotten fingers to play through my lips following rhythms against my skin. as i closed my eyes and let myself sink into the empty feeling in my gut, i remembered how their hands sounded like sand falling against itself while they grated against my skin. i dreamt of the dark imprint of their fingerprints cupping my back. you touched my face as though to see if my eyes would open, to prove some part of my body would respond to you through natural impulse and you asked, “how is it that you dream when the sweet residue of love has never been your blanket?” as i searched within me for an answer your presence there became too real and i pushed you away, saying “there are many ways to cope and remembering the single pair of soft hands is only one.” and i let you lie there, dreaming presumably of nothing but more probably of me, and i sacrificed my temporary bed to you, clinging to the pillow of a spare.
i wept, then, remembering the slow melancholy of love’s first escape and demanding to hold onto that which only i could possess. i listened to you sleeping, wondering why i felt sicker in that intimate moment than i had when my fingers returned the curl of your hair only hours earlier. i considered the low moans we both uttered as we journeyed in and out of ourselves, experiencing sex as an escape from love rather than a infinite confirmation of love in its singular, uniting form. i asked to no one, “how is it that i appear in your dreams but i will not remember your name?” and the only sound then was the quiet rustle of blankets as you rolled onto your other side, finding a more comfortable way to sleep.