I Want To Remember

Little streaks of soft light sneaked into the room, floating on any surface they could find. I tiptoed around the quietness, trying my best to hurry and be a ghost at the same time. The illumination of the clock flicked to 0940. Something, a stillness, stopped me in my tracks. I turned and stared.

A heartbeat, and then.

I want to remember the tranquillity before me. You were curled up on your left, warmed – shoulders down – by the white sheets draped dramatically over you and the huge bed that seemed too big for just one. The wrinkles on your forehead smoothed out, your arms circled the circumference of your face protectively, you breathed deeply and evenly, oblivious to the only movement in the room – me.

This is the ultimate trust a person can give another – by falling asleep. There is power in letting me experience this, and a vulnerability so pure it is almost blinding. When sleeping, all walls are gone. There exists no more guardedness, no more defenses, no more anything; there is nothing left, nothing, but you.

As if in a trance, I walked towards the bed, wanting to be closer, much closer, to you. Your chest rose and fell steadily. There was a boyish half-smile on your face. Your eyes remained shut. Humbled, I kneeled down, and dropped you the lightest of kisses on your forehead.

You I want to remember.


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