SOMETIME IN DECEMBER

If it were up to me, I’d live off Sundays and the feeling of your skin on mine right after the shower. We wouldn’t have to get out of the apartment, or my couch, or each other’s minds. I’d just bake you fresh food and kiss you to sleep. If we wished to feel even freer, we’d put on the best of your music and muffle out its sound by dancing, drinking, loving. Nothing would matter more than the moment. Everything would be so aligned and at peace, I’d forget that I once never felt this at all. You would take up the room, so much greater than all else I’ve known. So potent, so magnetic, but not quite untouchable. That’s what made our afternoons so lovely, how real you were. And in every glimpse of time I felt passing, I’d see more and more of you in my future. I’d know to hold you tightly yet tenderly, as to not let you lose yourself in me. But, just for those afternoons, we could come together as one. Your voice would echo in my mind, I’d lose myself in your gaze, I’d be given to all clichés. “Would you open another bottle?”. All that sweet red wine could replace any bitter blood that ran through my veins. Eventually, the clock would strike nine and we would be nowhere near the floor. How I wish I could meet you in every life. Tell me another story about that trip you took to Boston. Let me catch up on all of you that I did not have the privilege of meeting before. I lay and I listen. We’d sleep when the sun peeks through the window. You’d tangle my bed sheets and leave strands of your hair on my pillow. The night would still be so young, we’d still be so young. But, nevertheless, there are times to come. I pray they’ll remember us. We may get old and gray, but our love will never. 

Autoria: Nina Neves

Revisão: André Rhinow, Manuela Ferreira

Imagem de Capa: Foto da autora