Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The winter sun is warm, sleep inducing in this glassed box that moves. It reminds me of the feel of your fingers brushing against mine. I didn't quite feel them. Fingers too cold from the excitement that filled me at the thought of meeting you. The nervousness...
Your smile, tentative, guarded. A parting of lips, long fantasised over.
Eyes bloodshot from the shower. I remember how you smelt. How I inhaled. Surreptitiously though. You weren't to know.
I gave you books that day.
Locked between their pages little bits of coloured card. Each infused with one of my favourite perfumes.
You'd never hold me. At least, I thought... you should smell me.
I remember the drive back home. How blue the cold winter sky looked. How deep.
How black the tarred road. And how cheerful the leaves dancing across its surface. I remember being struck by the terrible beauty of a winter world that day. Shivering branches. Selfish sun.
How fast the time has passed. Four seasons since that day. The haughty chill of winter that depresses you, the budding promise of spring, new-green, gleaming.
The richness of a summer we never really saw. Not properly. Not in one another's imagined arms.
The slow drippy leaved autumn. Bereft of dancing leaves and your smiling face.
And once more. Winter...
It was our season. Always, its ashen swaying grass, naked branches, cold blue sky, it brings you...