Jul 2017
Running across a street to an unfamiliar café to meet a stranger is not ideal for a seashell-person, but still, there's something comforting about wearing a bright, floral skirt on a rainy day.
The sweet rattle of teacups; the crisp tear of our sachets of brown sugar and here we were, meeting for the first time. You smelled of a favorite quilt on winter's dawn and I was sleep deprived — Ideal. Slowly drawing circles with a spoon I wondered if I have met you before maybe somewhere, sometime in my head. You felt so familiar, as if we've laid on wet grass on a starry night before, or picked wildflowers on an orange evening in seventh grade. It's funny how much you have to say, about everything; how you look away then look at me. At times, in the dull of our voices, I watched the motion of your wrist as you poured tea from the *** — an imperceptible detail; it's sweet.
Sitting on a bench, at your favorite place of colourful, scribble-people was nice too. You thought I was indecisive because I was a Gemini; I couldn't decide how I felt about that. Do you remember if that little bookshop was decorated in string lights? In my imagination it was. Little, yellow lights and you. You were so vivid and happy, and so I don't understand why you were still painted in a shade of unspoken melancholy.
It's so strange how when we lay together; your arm under my neck, my legs across your hip — it fit. Sitting cross-legged, I wanted to remember you exactly in that afternoon light. The creases of your forehead; the crinkle on the side of your eyes when you smiled; just the way the light defined your ear ...like white pastel on a portrait.
When I sat alone in your room between a mango and a guava tree, I wrote about you. I wrote, about your breath on my neck when we made love, how in that moment my hands were your hands, your lips were my lips, my name was your name; it's beautiful to be that close to someone. I liked how your house smelled like an old bookstore — of unpolished wood. Stuck in a temporal limbo, I wrote about how you said you liked terraces; that your eyes were light brown. I scribbled something about a poet, a red tshirt and how close the trees are to the windows.
I then wrote about, when we were walking away from the little bookshop with the string lights and I said to you, "I am sad that this is coming to an end." And you asked, "who said this is the end?" I wrote about that, and other things.
The sweet rattle of teacups; the crisp tear of our sachets of brown sugar and here we were, meeting for the first time. You smelled of a favorite quilt on winter's dawn and I was sleep deprived — Ideal. Slowly drawing circles with a spoon I wondered if I have met you before maybe somewhere, sometime in my head. You felt so familiar, as if we've laid on wet grass on a starry night before, or picked wildflowers on an orange evening in seventh grade. It's funny how much you have to say, about everything; how you look away then look at me. At times, in the dull of our voices, I watched the motion of your wrist as you poured tea from the *** — an imperceptible detail; it's sweet.
Sitting on a bench, at your favorite place of colourful, scribble-people was nice too. You thought I was indecisive because I was a Gemini; I couldn't decide how I felt about that. Do you remember if that little bookshop was decorated in string lights? In my imagination it was. Little, yellow lights and you. You were so vivid and happy, and so I don't understand why you were still painted in a shade of unspoken melancholy.
It's so strange how when we lay together; your arm under my neck, my legs across your hip — it fit. Sitting cross-legged, I wanted to remember you exactly in that afternoon light. The creases of your forehead; the crinkle on the side of your eyes when you smiled; just the way the light defined your ear ...like white pastel on a portrait.
When I sat alone in your room between a mango and a guava tree, I wrote about you. I wrote, about your breath on my neck when we made love, how in that moment my hands were your hands, your lips were my lips, my name was your name; it's beautiful to be that close to someone. I liked how your house smelled like an old bookstore — of unpolished wood. Stuck in a temporal limbo, I wrote about how you said you liked terraces; that your eyes were light brown. I scribbled something about a poet, a red tshirt and how close the trees are to the windows.
I then wrote about, when we were walking away from the little bookshop with the string lights and I said to you, "I am sad that this is coming to an end." And you asked, "who said this is the end?" I wrote about that, and other things.
