Our Moment

Early hours of the late night. A lamp made from a wine bottle and ferry lights stood pretty in one corner. And we lay in our lazy beds, looking dazed at shiny dots scantily scattered over the walls. We stared long and hard and conversed with our thoughts. We shared our stories and our silences. Wove timeless tales lost to music from old faithful speakers and shared a little part of ourselves. With each other. Closer. Held hands and held intimate liquid moments that slipped into reveries. In early hours of the late night, we dreamt, together and woke up sudden to the threat of dried cold air. Lost.
Found. We watered our parched throats, held our hands closer and resumed our moment.

Although this time, our moment bordered scandal, rather naively.

Untitled

She sat in her bedroom soaking in the silence of the night. Soaking in the only time when people don't scream from the outside, when doors can remain shut and faces always in her face sleep away in oblivion. The only time in the house when no one talks, only fingers type and music plays from a laptop where the battery doesn't last. As the ink pen demands to write, the nip softly scraps on the surface of an old diary, letters permute to make sense to literate eyes. The lamp in the corner shines confidently, leaving water patterns on the wall, a silent click somewhere, eyes look to the fan which readjusts with heaviness and continues to fan. Effort-fully.

The tone of the room changes, music stops, the pen continues but words feel pressurized. From somewhere, guilt starts to crawl in. Something from the past just came alive. The stomach growls, spasms erupt in pain and relax. Back asks for a change of posture, muscles contract, wait to ease, eyes drop, fingers hurt for a lack of practice and she realizes all her body has done - is complain.