There is more than enough sparkle to make me understand that everyday dealings are just but a glimpse of what's to come. I am impatient with the chatter, with the musings. Meaning and I-we are still at a standstill; the kind which new lovers engage in, holding on to what makes the force novel, how there are really two newly-engaged separate parts. It's ironic, really. Days pass by with flowers on the other side of the bridge. Crossing seems like a blurred memory, a dizzying intake of nostalgia. Rousing, but it leaves no taste once you hit the ground.
Ten years ago, I imagined a character of monotony. Horizons have grown, and a burst of advocacy struggle to be removed, away from one's bosom. Not really sure if this is what it means to be sewn into the fabric of time, I am entangled but manage to float at the same time.
Like the one I fondly call home, we have been anchored on to the familiarity of smells, textures, weights. Being apart only manages to remove such embezzlement. Home is still he. And I am still me. But we have been said to be on the same blanket, albeit snagged in understanding, the kind which only final unity can bring.
I lay on the bed and wake in my sleep, or is it the other way around?
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