I close my eyes, letting my soft-souled, imaginative memory run.
It gathers its energy and momentum, rises up like smoke.
It’s running fast,
chasing after your face, your frames,
nose, lips,
the way the two ends of your smile
curl up
when your face gets
closer to mine.
I open my eyes for a second,
afraid of getting lost in what’s past.
But I’ve always been a masochist
with my own stories
in time.
Lids closed once more, my mind reaches
out its tender arms, grasping
onto the feeling of your lips
touching mine. Oh
how close, how naturally warm we were together.
Hours passed by, like time was never
once an abstract
so skewed, an entity
so monopolistically significant and constant.
It made an attempt
at alarming us with helplessness,
reasons, but was of no influence.
For our minds were so unforgettably
occupied, and we were ourselves
loving the space our beings filled up
in conjunction.
