Her

As I half-lay on her, my face close to her, I could only see her green eyes, with their black pupils. The sliver of her face that was not hidden by my shadow was flashing aglow and fading black in tune to the steps the curtain was performing with the light from the window.  I drew my face closer to hers, our noses brushing, light still dancing against her left eye.

Her pupil was blossoming and shrinking, consuming and emancipating the green of her eyes. Our conversation was the same, loving and losing and losing and loving. Consuming love emancipating despair and consuming despair liberating love. As captive as a ray of light on a misty, dewy winter evening. Cold and Warm, dark and bright. Grey and white.

Like the dance of the pupil to the rhythm of light, we were living in the moment, enjoying the warmth that was tripping between the infinitesimal distance of our bodies. The future, we both thought to ourselves, not letting it out to the other, can take a hike. What mattered was the arms and fitting between them.  What mattered was the warmth and its journey between the bodies.

It was a synesthete’s hit of heroin. It was when feelings became time, and time became a colour. It was when the intensity grew, time greyed out. It was just the dancing of her pupils playing my heart strings.