I think of him. the puffs of smokes, the stalking eyes and the bitter cynical behavior that follows. I tell him “black” and see him in “white” .
A paradox of all sorts, he and I live, which we name not, a thing that needs no definition, a passion not lived and brought to a stale-mate.
A moment of happiness and gentleness that I had not felt in a long time. I live. I feel. I taste. The tingling of skin, the brushing of lips and the eyes that watch me, as I feel his lips on the back of my neck, butterfly kisses long felt, and guiltless.
We live separated, by a very thin line, undefined, invisible where he lives for a moment that he awaits, and I, a life of duty.