The water reaches my back cold at first, shockingly until my body gets used to the sensation. Haven’t fallen asleep completely sober in seven days. She is still asleep in the other room with her arm over her head and the sun creeping in through the window. It is a bright morning and really beautiful out there. Where I am from it is really rainy and cold- I feel as though I am on lock down back home, but not here. I turned out from the shower. This corner of the house is separate from the bigger living room, hard-wooded. I know she doesn’t hear me.
I want to kiss her and feel her and I am not sure that she wants me to. Talks that we have had over coffee, fruit or nuts in the dining room competing for who can make the other laugh longer, louder. On the pavement our walks become something of a floating venture, amazed at how plants have arranged themselves, as if they had done it so deliberately. During our drives down the interstate, everything is an event of self-discovery and disillusionment, or coming into reality, or coming into our reality together.
I rest and try not to watch her as she continues to sleep silently on that couch. With her permission perhaps she’ll let me take pictures of us way up high- overlooking the city as the sun passes over the bay and we think nothing of the past or future. Thinking only of how our voices should get louder as we have known each other for longer now.
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