Waking Moments

ImageIn dark and light waking moments-before night ends and day begins-I think of you. I wonder, how you are. I wonder how you sleep. I wonder what fills your dreams. I wonder how you preserve the memory of me on you, when you share you with her. I’d like to think that there are places I touch that she doesn’t. Things I do that you don’t with her.

But that’s silly. I feel silly for thinking this. Because I’m on the outside-looking in, often through the window. Sometimes through a partially open door. A voyeur into your life. Part of me doesn’t mind, part of me does. Part of me feels lucky, to have any part of you. Part of me wants more. Part of me dreams of a different place-let’s call it a parallel universe. Where I am her-and I have you, all the time. It’s just a dream-a beggar on a horse really. But in waking moments I allow myself that.

In waking moments nothing is defined-it’s not day and it’s not night. In waking moments I am both asleep and awake. In waking moments I have impossible possibilities. Conscious contradictions that make sense. In waking moments I live. In waking moments I summon the memory of you into my bed. Already warm with the sleep of the night before, we cuddle. I bury my face in your breasts and breathe you in. You hold me. My hair tickles your chin. Our legs intertwine. We press up against each other. We breathe. We say good morning. We talk about fantasies and nightmares. We caress each other. We laugh about nothing.

In waking moments you’re in my bed. Your presence is real, your breath on my neck warm. In waking moments I summon you because it’s possible. It’s possible to have you here. In waking moments I have you, to myself. All of you. For maybe five minutes. Because waking moments are brief-fleeting almost.

The world is so polarised-things that lie between cannot exists in this world long. They can for a while. Not for long. Waking moments create grey of black and white. It’s in this grey of night and day, yes and no, here and there, warm and cold-that I find you. Often. Always.

Good morning. Good morning. Good morning.


One Comment

  1. This post captures all the pathos of a love story. If I can play lovesick doctor for a moment: when, in this love story are we to start preparing for the imperfect ending, which words do we write for our shattered hearts, when do we ever forget?
    It is an emotional sea. And because it happened, we acknowledge it did, to feel it through our hearts and to make sense of how to act on it, to overcome it. The terrible journey of overcoming it especially. The love story stays with us, it cuts to the very core of who we are, who we were while with them, and reliving it is nothing but easy.
    “I wonder how you preserve the memory of me on you…” for this reason we now linger in the shadows…our spirits groan for we fail to understand whether they remember us too, now, are we the proverbial girl they used to know.. do they touch her and think of us too.. the jealous moments..the body spasms..the prayer that our stars aligns in the parallel universe..it’s the waking moments.. and yes, nothing is defined.
    I love reading your blog, my friend. Thanks for sharing this piece with us. Relatable is a word.
    Sending good vibes your way.


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