Carrying you around in my eyes.

On the seventh floor nature is deceptive through the raised window. A vulnerability in light, my body sleeps in the final frame of dream. Entwined in not arms of last night, but vines of emerald and diluted jade. My springtime purchase, these sheets retain your presence. Those hours spent falling into my open shape. Clinging to me, like a memory I try to feel closer with, is a deeper perfume. During day, I live the nostalgia for our evenings. When we spoke of ourselves as if it were the only thing we needed to learn before light took us by surprise. We were engrossed, I am sure they said. And didn’t need each other, which was probably true. But we never asked anyone to watch, though I don’t blame so and so if we were found noticeable. We only thought to know ourselves, while lying in bed with backs against time. I felt we were on our way.

It is impossible now not to see contours of a figure set outside a dream. To turn over and remember you there. It hasn’t anything to do with love, rather a touch I felt I’d enjoy in repetition. Even if the moment never seemed real, I can’t just open my eyes and blame impressions on the hour and its quantity of light. I slept as well then as I lived; there was no place I went to hide. To feel is a luxury we are entitled to allow. But that doesn’t mean we control when or why it happens or whether I achieve resulting comfort. 

What did you say? I try to remember when our faces are apart and I can’t whisper, again, what it is you think I should know, which is more or less what you hope I remember. When I listened, I acted like a child. Seeing you always for the first time, I was a trusting girl with large eyes that stare. Not wanting to overpower hours most appropriate for my learning, I became smaller as you were developing into someone I hadn’t considered you’d be. Keeping quiet was my mouth who didn’t say a thing about what my mind was carrying on. I shouldn’t always reveal everything, even though I knew you would remember me more had I given myself away, nicely. 

Another word. A longer glance. If I chose it well, you may have seen me perfectly. My palm kept open instead, and you read it without a clue. Subtle signs of my aging. You pressed them against the wall, waiting for my urge for freedom. Something I wasn’t wanting to have. The only thing I think I thought was how in winter, when nothing moves in apartments, I’d miss this time. And sure, I know ways to replace, so what I miss can be forgotten as a mistake. But that doesn’t mean I am in any rush to do so. Because a sigh for a sigh is not exchangeable, although it’s the consequence of two bodies and lips that moved their way into communion. Knowing this, still, I’d like to think what makes a difference in mind are the eyes and a bit of heart. As much as we try to manipulate the quality and quantity of what we feel, nothing is ever the same. Each moment is unmatchable.

Today is not like the day before. Outside is a city I can never hear. And I wake with the light thrown in, to watch a vacancy compartmentalized, hoping someone is left that at times I cannot see who will come and move me closer to a feeling you are responsible for.