I remember feeling so odd.

We were laying in bed and you somehow felt nostalgic.

Nostlagic? This had never happened before.

I had never leaned into the contours of your body, fit perfectly into your arms as we watched the

reflections of each other's eyes and saw dust particles lazily glide across the strips of sunlight spilling out between the blinds.


Memories, filtered with time and love

Like folded up pictures, white edges of time carried in a wallet and oiled up by your thumb

Constantly gliding over adoring eyes,

The way I grab for your cheeks or

Your thighs; rubbing, stroking, loving.

Thirsty for every moment.

Happiness can't seem to cover it.

Contentment with a mixture of longing (for time to stop) and brain dead-ness from what seemed an oddly curious and suspicious amount of affection and peace

From a single touch.

Happiness without you seems like an inseparable object.

I cannot reasonably bring up an image of happiness without thoughts of midday naps and blond hair.

The way you tilt your wrist to check your watch, the careful gate you use in your house, or the manner in which you speak-

How your voice shadows itself, with soft echoing behind the intial tone; your hushed questions of my needs and wants, tailed with the murmurs of repetition. "Can I do anything for you? for you?".

It seems there is no proper medium to express

And it seems even then I cannot seem to know

Where you and me ends, begins, and where

Time and memory have slipped and become a fuzzy amalgamation of one.

This poem is about: 


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