the threads in her head

to a book-

Sweetly those words do sing, like the gentle hold and warmth of hand against the small of back, the slow gradual leaning in ending with the meeting of lips for a moment before withdrawing again, the caress of the thumb against the chin, the sweet questioning look asking, shyly, gently, was that ok, better now?

In your intangible embrace of long sentences and letters, and my physical self curled up, back against the sofa, wall, I feel small - I am forgotten, I have forgotten, the buzz of noise and traffic, the lashing of rain against cement, the lives of a million other people - they are forgotten, they do not exist. Who has eyes for others when caught so in your words? My eyes were riveted on you and you only, every turn of your page, every curve of your letter, the prettiness of expression, the charm of adventure hidden within.

But still I had to tear myself away, the harsh hard lines of math called, the strict impersonal lines of equal signs and long tedious working - there was work to be done, and it had to be done, and I had to do it; and yet, and yet, how I yearned to stay in your world of fantasies and faeries, a world that wakes up stars and helium balloons within me, the richness of imagination, the colouring of creativity all over?

Too much, too much, I had took too much of you in, and you remained, metaphors and plots, playful imps and elves messing with my mind. In all your light-heartedness it somehow hurt, a knowledge, some sort of realisation that the story would end, your world would be cut off with a resolving of all issues, everything thing settled, "happily ever after"... And mine. Mine went on.

What a hollow dull ache this is that has ringed itself round my heart. The memory of your story is going to stay as long as I can remember - like we have went through wedding vows, and only in sleep and unconsciousness would I be able to not think, and remember, but have the same bliss as forgetfulness.