she holds my hand on the side of her thigh. it is night, the street lamps are burning as if they have taken it upon themselves to illuminate every texture of our skins. so soft—the tips of her fingers crispy cold and hot against mine every time she swings them back and forth. she presses a cherry tomato to my lips and asks, “what do you hate about them, my love?” hearing her talk is sitting in a sacred, haunted castle where my soul washes off its sins and dutifully becomes a newborn god.
“their existence itself,” i explain, sifting my fingers through the length of her hair. they are like the lamps: they had been burning for so long; they exist only when they burn.
she laughs. we help each other climb onto the low ledge at the back of a mansion. she places another tomato in her mouth and i watch her like i’m dreaming—like i have been dreaming from the first time i saw her, like she will tell me she wants to go to the moon and i will die to take her there. i stare at her until she cracks, turning to me.
“listen,” she pauses when i brush my thumb over her mouth where the tomato juice has leaked, “do you think you can float on water even if you’re alive?”
i lean my head on the wall. “i guess you can if your soul isn’t.”
she suddenly brings her face closer to mine. “you’re so beautiful. let me bring an apocalypse for you.”
“when i desire one, i will bring it myself.”
leaning back, she purses her lips. i can tell the direction of the conversation has strayed away from where she wanted it to go. i laugh softly, caressing her face with the back of my hand. it’s midnight again, we’re still toying with the idea of silk surrounding our bodies: cunning, mysterious and falling deeper into a burrowed space. i can’t tell if it is me who is dreaming or her, or is there a greater god than me who is dreaming us both. here, right now, only existing in this moment and always existing at midnight as if we’ve been existing at this time.
she doesn’t say anything for a long time. i can almost imagine her thinking tell me who is going to meet me here? who is going to love me if you don’t? all of her thoughts floating around her—yet—yet she doesn’t speak. time passes me and i watch it go.
“the november sun is shy.” she sighs.
i turn to her. “you can’t see it, though.”
“that is because it’s shy,” she reiterates. pollen is clinging to her long eyelashes; it disappears every time she blinks.
i end up shaking with laughter. then she looks at me, and she looks at me till the small distance between us has shriveled to an idea of a space which seems so illusionary, it never even existed. she looks at me till i can see myself through her eyes, as if we’ve suddenly swapped bodies. taking my face in her hand, she becomes a surrealistic painting. her, staying. me, existing—two timelines intersecting in the crescent of the moon. our girlhoods a never-ending state of grace—
and yet at 4 in the morning when i glance up at the sky: the november sun is still seems to be shy.
Written by. Berrs (Editor)
Painting by. François-Hubert Drouais (Portrait of an Elegant Lady)