You and I are the in-between. We are lost Sunday afternoons, filled with unseen phantoms and poignant kisses. We are the oblivious, the uncertain; the tick-tock of distant, beloved memories. We swim amid devious remembrances; memories sugar-coated by time - where we believe the best and the worst in each other.
Distorted consciousness; with half-lidded eyes, I ache for touch and I am lost. Lost in the thought of you - of you and your ability to soothe me. Unseen, spectral arms coil round me and consume me - consume me within their unbearable weightlessness. Slipping around my waist, fingers ghosting against my cool, damp skin, I lay my head back against your chest and am lulled by the beat, beat, beating intensity of your fabled heart.
As I sink onto your uniqueness, I recall your bold colours that spoke of pride and passion, I remember every fine line of your taut and sculptured, ethereal, chest; I can almost feel that familiar rise and fall of your chest beneath me and I endeavour to bring to mind the essence that was purely you.
I breathe, and I linger...waiting, waiting for those heated promises yet to come.
Mine, you whisper, your voice a sweet promise.
All mine, forever, you murmur; your sigh a promise of a kiss.
Lips parted - crimson lips against pale neck, a tremor, a brief touch; green assuages grey, and we become undone.
Bathed in gold twilight, luminous we become; a recollection, a haze, a most glorious daydream, a reflection of need and want.
"Never stop holding me, Harry," I sigh, a thousand catches in my throat.
"I'll never stop loving you," he promises, he lies; he leaves, as he has left so many times before.
If I could keep my eyes closed for long enough, would he stay the next time, would he never leave?
A quiver, a sigh; I yearn for the impossible. The dead don't come back, you see - and all we can do is dream.
You and I are atrophy, we are the in-between.