I could hear at the small of his words something grow. Is it a mis-truth or a confession. The slightest indication of the point that will come when one of us has to say goodbye. I can feel in breath something desperate. Begging for more of my skin, more of my life, more of my thoughts that drift us up into a imaginary world that was created for us.

The light through the small of my window danced on the crumpled waves we bathed our curiosity in. What is this curve, this spot, this anchor I can feel pulling down into a depth that I can follow only so far before needing to come up for breath.

This is ours. You said it. Even for just a moment. But in the small of my mind hidden underneath the dusty books and records, I wait and I watch,

for you to be revealed.