The Illustration

We reached into the universe, this large open space above
our heads, in a room of no more than 400 square feet.
We imagined our stars, their galaxies and constellations.
We drew an entire evening sky with our fingertips.
He outlined a crescent moon among the specks of glowing
light, and I closed my eyes to see clearly our illustration.

It was brilliant.

The Imagining

She once wrote about a space teetering on the edge of absolute rawness: concrete flooring, exposed brick walls, overly tall windows, and high ceilings.  On a separate occasion, he also imagined a space quite similar in nature.  A place with an open floor plan and only a Japanese folding screen separating the industrial living space from the intimacy of a single bed tucked away in the corner.  When he told her about this, she saw her own imagining change slightly.  She no longer only saw herself in it, but she saw him in it, too.

She saw them together.

She saw an empty space surrounded by nothingness.  Nothingness was all they ever wanted, all they ever needed.  Because everything they wanted and needed was in each other.  It was morning.  Natural light made its way through the sectioned window panes and onto his pale skin, her tanned skin, their bare skin.  They were living in their own filtered projection.  

They were lying in a bed of wrinkled white sheets, creased by the previous night.  They welcomed the quietness of unspoken emotions.  There was nothing separating him from her, her from him.  His body, which was the perfect amount of heaviness, moved over hers and she shifted her weight to let him in completely.  She lifted her right hand and ran her fingers slowly down the side of his face.  He gently swept her hair to the side and they stared at each other without saying a word.  In that moment, time stood still for them.  They were together.  They were in love. 

They were complete.  They laid in their white bed for hours.

---

You deserve to find love, to be loved, and to live in love.

I wish you all the light in the universe.

Love Game

He stared at her.

They sat at the edge of his bed exchanging silent smiles, neither
one moving.  Eventually, she inched toward him.  She wrapped her
legs around his waist.  The warmth of his body felt like static to her
cold skin.

He ran his fingers through strands of her damp hair.  The sweet  scent
of milk and roses from her shower lingered in the space between them.

He hesitated for a brief moment.  "I love you," he murmured.  His
voice was soft, but firm.

It wasn't that she did not hear him.  She did.  With his words
suspended in air, she turned away.  When she turned back to look at
him, her expression had changed.  The corners of her mouth
reluctantly curled upward into a sad smile.

"No, I'm afraid you do not."

"Yes, I do."

She leaned over and whispered into his ear, "But it's not love."  With
that, she unwound herself from him.  He held onto her.

"How can you say that with such certainty?"

"Because I am certain."

"How?"

"Because all of this"--she motioned at him, at her, at their surroundings--
"is only pretend."

---
Originally written in 2012
Published in 2014

Lukewarm

With the sound of the faucet running, she closed her eyes and patted
her face wet.  She remembered the passion-plum walls, the black
accents, and their ability to swallow her entire existence.  She recollected the
rolling scenes of a darkened evening sky, occasionally saturated by low-lit,
awkward orange street bulbs.  She recalled leaning against the bathroom door
frame and watching the shifting imagery project across her large bedroom
window and cast shadows onto the ceiling.  Like an old film reel. 
Sirens.  Periodic shouts.  It was beautiful, all of it.

She turned off the faucet.

--

Originally published in 2011

Revised in 2014

The Condition

We met on the first evening of autumn that year.  The months 

following were spent in laughter, exploration, dance, and late-night 

sharing of each other's life story.

Then one day he said to me, "This can be forever if we let it."  His 

words were heavy, though genuine.  Yet somehow, I was unconvinced 

of us.

I polished off a glass of fizzy.  I picked at some invisible lint on my 

black jeans.  How faded they were in the unmasked light.

He reached for my hand.  I reached for something on the end table--

perhaps an excuse, perhaps another reason to continue being without 

a permanent condition.

We didn't talk for a few days.  We didn't see each other for a week.  

Eventually, it became a month.  Then a year passed.  Autumn came 

and went.

Yesterday marked the fifth year of our obsoletion.  I heard he married 

a pretty gal and started a family.  They are living somewhere overseas 

now.  He fancies her very much.  That is all I know.

We could have been each other's forever.

But I didn't believe it.

I didn't allow myself to believe it, or to believe him.

These days, autumn only reminds me of what I no longer have.

Forever.

---

Originally written in 2012

Edited and published in 2014