smudge

we smudge against each other, the thin upper epidermis on the back of my hand running a smudge against your pores. the distance narrowed, reality runs a rim between us again and we move apart as if on cue.

***

your words, like flat stones, are what i turn over and over in my hands.
i trace the base of the stones and graze my fingertips over them. i observe the nuances of the stones, the way your words change when i play them over in my head. i imagine words not said, words exchanged.

we could have all the time in the world and not a single thing to talk about.

to sleep, perchance to dream.

as if the room has been stuck in a time warp, nothing has changed. i smooth my palm over the decorative sheet placed over the quilt at the foot of the bed and feel slight ridges in the fabric. they are squares imprinted upon the fabric, each overlapping the over, linking each other up, as if in a jaunt to nowhere. i run the back of my hand across the fabric and my nail catches onto a kink in the fabric. my mind wills me to walk across the carpet to the window, to push the curtains away and gaze across to the busy shopping malls, but that can wait, time is now mine to have.

we are part of a group in a room, happily chatting away. sitting in a circle, you across me. she by my side. my phone outside the room. how do i know this? it rings. and the first time, the ringing is stopped by a short beep, which only sounds when someone presses the end call button. the second time, the ringing is stopped the same way. but there was no one outside the room. my blood freezes as the second beep sounds. we look at each other, you included, and i see her eyes glaze over in horror as she points to the gap between the doorframe and the door. i whip around and see an image of you drifting past, your eyes haunted by loss. confounded, confused, i turn to you. you are resigned, as if the game is up. your eyes downcast, you turn a pallor of grey, your lips rapidly fading to a ghoulish blue. in horror, i watch as you slump to the tatami mat, your skin now paper grey and riddled with brown age spots.

it is uncommon to awake peacefully from a nightmare, but i did. beads of sweat draped on my forehead, i did. i find myself gazing upwards onto the absymal white ceiling and i think of a dream within a dream. all of a sudden, it seems as though i have travelled several yards back in time warps.

perhaps the past never leaves us then, for it should truly exist in another time, place or reality.

and where does that leave me now? my youth gone, like a shrivelled flower still lingering onto its stem after its prime. petals turning yellow with time, i still hold on to that stem, as though hanging on would mean time could be reversed, that i could enjoy and savour everything in slow motion, to see my life all over again, even if i could not change things.

lost in slumber for too long, the blanket which pours a mist over my consciousness is lifted. suddenly the mist clears and i think i can see once more. for i have forgotten what it was like to be able to think after the day was done, that time could be seen in stolen snatches and fluidity, that it need not be compartmentalised into a regimented number of days and into a life that has been broken up into passages of time waiting to be lived out.

get lost, this poor imitation of a life. this poor pretence of living that hoodwinks every consumer into believing you to be the sacred vial everyone should drink from.

get lost, thoughts of sinking into bed arising every time the need to live out this poor pretence comes up.

instead, valour, impart and take over.