the threads in her head

the mechanics of intimacy, or not-

A drizzle in the city, a long kiss, a nestling-of-head against your shoulder, a sense of time stopping, a world of our own.

Standing there, in a paradoxical land of sparse greenery among tall grey buildings looming over and covering the world in shadows, in a world of stranger faces, walking by with hurried footsteps, there's you, and there's me, and arms locked around each other and...

There is something different between imagination and reality. The penning down of imagination are fickle flights of fancies, - they are inspired-by. The penning down of reality is something entirely different - for all the flimsy abstract words which embodies them, they are real. Are angels any less miraculous by taking on air? Are experiences any less real by taking on words?

Yet still, flimsy, flimsy are the words that tries to prop up these experiences.