and we are one, your kisses – multitudes of words, your heart beating out the rhythm in the lagoon of poetry that is life. somehow no longer my life and your life, but our life; two rivers merging into one. who knows if and where they will split again?
and this happiness is odd, overpowering, ostentatious.
this happiness cares for noone and nothing. it surges through my arteries when you hold me close, crowning my cheeks with a rose-tinted glow, as if i was the princess and you were the pea, keeping me awake at night when all i wanted was a warm bed to rest in.
and i’ve grown romantic. through the lack of sleep or else, illness. got myself a little diary with pictures of Paris in it, just so i could mark the date of us, the real beginning, in it, next to la Tour Eiffel, or next to le Bon Marché or maybe even in the calendar slot where it should be – the 6th of april.
and i have. i put a cross there, in that empty white box, a little “x”. a flittering kiss, a mark of my love, whatever one may take it for.
and though you may never see it or hear of it, it will always be there.
it reassures me i that i learnt how to love again.
after X, after Y.