Blue Towers

There are at least 6 courtesy pens from Barclays bank sitting in my pencil holder. Empty blue transparent plastic cylinders filled with the memory of the one who horded them. Across the room is a grey and yellow back pack. It slouches against the lonely fireplace betraying secrets of many voyages in lands near and far. Of stashed goodies and disappearing keys. Of dense books hiding small truths and of picture boxes that spurned amazing sights to behold.

Like suns, setting over sea, land, sometimes seen through moving windows on moving carriages on moving journeys.

It’s almost like the essence of us is movement.

Ever since I met him, we have been moving. Moving from academia to the real world. Moving from flat to flat. Moving from North to South. Moving from shy glances and polite meetings to the captivating thrall of passion… and then to love. Moving across oceans. And moving even when sitting still and imagining the whens, never the ifs.

Sometimes I would tire of moving and dream for days where we could sit and just be there in that moment, with no regard for anything else. And sometimes I would fear that we wouldn’t be able to sustain such stillness. Now, I look back at everything with appreciation and gratefulness. And I crave that the next movement is a magnetic one.

I only make half a bed in the mornings. The pillows and cushions lie on the other half, unmoved. I don’t need the whole of a double bed when there is no one to share it with. Sometimes when I turn in the night and feel the solid softness of the cushions beside me, I wish they were his hands wrapping around me, pulling me closer than physics would allow. The warmth from their fingertips spreading across my icy limbs, sealing me in a plush cocoon of happiness. And I’d sleep like there were no nightmares, no alarm clocks, no mid-night toilet runs…

There is a small corner of my heart, 2.77 cm from the incision, that fears next week. And the next and the next, and the next. Will we still have things to say to eachother, without the conversation support that is touch? Will we still be able to carry on as if distance doesn’t matter? Will we still remember instantaneously the creases and blemishes on each other’s faces?

I don’t know. But I like to think that even if these things are lost, other equally if not more satisfying things will assume their place. We’re adaptable creatures, we. We’re shock-absorbing, transcontinental warriors. And most importantly, I feel this is real.

The Beginning was the End