3/7/15

I want the last word and the last thought. I want him to know the words that get stuck in my throat and the wild thought that runs around screaming about him.

Did you know that I think of all the places where we left a bit of you and me. Hotel rooms, pubs, streets, beds and kitchens and parks and lakes. Do those places know how many people were happy in them? All of those places have stories to tell, yours and mine but other people's too.

The sky is pink right now. Makes me think of your lips and how I never finished kissing you. Thoses kisses float around in that room that still smell of our pillow fights and our happiness feasts. 

I would tell you so many things and write to you about all sorts of extraordinary things to make you listen to everything that tells a story. Like those days I spent paying close attention to the noise your soul makes.

We have a bit of history : under a rooftop on a rainy night, of piggy backs on rainy streets, of stolen kisses that nobody knows of, of collision between our two souls. My words are your breathing when you fall asleep, fast but peaceful, hurrying images in my head; a sign that you are here but not quite with me.