You close your eyes.
The afternoon is warm and lazy, and dappled sunlight, molten gold, streams through the white cotton curtains. The pages crinkle as you turn them softly, and the black words spin and whirl behind your eyes like leaves in the autumn wind.
The crystal windows turn the sunrays into fractured rainbows, sunbeams dancing in the room. The room smells like candle wax and lamplight, like lavender clouds and dark rain.
A little black cat blinks and purrs, a circle of warmth on your lap.
You close your eyes and your mouth is filled with cinnamon and wildflowers, as you sip your tea and the honey colored liquid splashes down, lighting a flame right behind your ribs that you only feel with her.
Shadows dance across pale hands as black lace is broken like the dawn, and the dark brunette smiles at you and her emerald eyes shine like stained glass. You lean your head on the soft cold pillow and return her smile.
Her white fingers curl gently around a piece of yarn and tug, the purple dye blossoming on the edges of her fingertips. She laughed, a lilting song, that broke the syrupy warmth like a flash of lighting. You smile and you feel your cheeks ache because it has been so long since you felt this happy.
This…alive.
You feel alive.
The first, hesitant strains of violin music begin and you both glance at the record player as it spins the record that Dave gave you. Her hair bounces as she turns to you excitedly.
Because this is your song. You leap up from the soft cushions, and purple balls of yarn fly and land silently in a cloud of dust.
Your hands meet. You will never get tired of the way her fingers feel on your skin.
She smiles at you and together, you spin, sunlight and perfume whirling around the edges of your skirts.
She lets her head rest on your shoulder and you laugh into her hair.
You lips meet in a clash of happiness and sorrow, and you can taste it, as the music fades off. Being alive.
Because the sun is warm, and the room is quiet, and you finally finished the unspoken book that you have been trying to write, but never knew you were writing.
And now neither of you have words to say, because you are both lost. Lost in the dangling conversation...