It’s not the same, we could pretend all night, playing charades of being lovers in the moment. Sometimes intoxicated and sometimes, regrettably not. But I’ll never make you feel the way she can, she who can kiss away the frowns on your forehead and unclench your stubborn fingers. She who can melt into you like wax in flame and ice in rum, who can leave without leaving a trace and still leave your soul as hollow as a pitted walnut shell.
And nor are you he. He who
can walk into a room and change the very air it contains. Who can make my guts
clench into a tight pleasant knot with nothing more than a half hug, he who
makes me want to crumble into a heap of peanut brittle in warm chocolate, whose
hands on a discarded earring feel like a warm patient caress down my bare back.
He who has become my temptation, it’s like I’ve been living in a dark Iceland
with a fortified igloo around me and suddenly he decided to become the sun and
come visiting. It’s like I’ve been welding an intricate cage around me for ages
and ages past and in one snap of his fingers, the locks are undone, and the
walls are none.
Dear convenient arrangement, my
mechanical fingers make you live your fantasies; your experienced hands make me
live mine while we accidentally moan a name that does not belong to anyone in
the room. And later, we smoke in silence on either corner of the bed, half
dressed and fully veiled. “You should come over for dinner sometime…soon…ish.”
I mumble something about a
9.30 meeting and begin to leave, physically.
And until next time we will
continue, with our insulated emotions lodged deep into the no escape room of
our corroding mind palace. And when the walls are threatening to give away,
when the roof is about to collapse, one of us will message the other to get the
cello tape and come and the other will promptly oblige.
And another night of
temporary repairs will commence.
“Can I bum a smoke? ...
Thanks”
