A month, a year, a decade. Does it matter? It's quiet now; I can almost hear the faint droplets of the water from the kitchen sink, and the rustle of the sheets from when you used to be mine. I can almost make out the click clacking of your spoon and fork as we eat, and the clatter the plate makes when you drop it, because you are endearingly clumsy.
... Sometimes, when I'm alone at night, at the moment before my mind drifts off into the land of make believe, I can almost hear you tell me you'll see me in your dreams.
One day, Two days, one week, one month, one year.
The days roll by slowly but it feels like I've been living a lifetime.
Morning comes, and I'm greeted with the faint smell of coffee being ground by the cappuccino machine, and the rustle of the newspaper's pages turning. As you turn up the volume on the radio when Put Your Head On My Shoulder comes on, I complain and tell you to keep it down; I'm not yet finished dreaming, I'm not ready to wake up and face the long day ahead ... You know sometimes I think that maybe, just maybe, I haven't quite woken up yet.
No comments:
Post a Comment