The lover stroked her calloused hands against my cheek and slumped her body across the bed. Even as we sleep, she sleeps with her eyes open so as not to lose a moment without staring into me, my dreams, my wanderings, my unfinished aspirations lived out in another world. She traces the ridges of my back and kisses the air between us.
The lover is ever so mindful that we do not lose track of time. She draws the curtains abruptly, revealing that we had spent a little too much time, and with my eyes squinting to adjust to the light, I too realise that our days are numbered and they are vaporising slowly under the heat of the sun that glimmered above us, merciless, unaware.
The lover pulls out a chair from under the table that was once a bright yellow but now, it too had journeyed the wear and tear of supporting the weight of her worries every night as she sits and writes about nothing too important. Time, the lover says, is all we have, but I never seem to know what to do with what I have and only know to long for what I don’t. It’s okay, I say, regaining consciousness, my arms wrapped around a pillow she had slept on, her scent wafting intermittently, filling the room until I no longer notice it completely. Let’s just keep our promises and let time do the worrying for us. The clattering of keys heard from a distance jerked me from my somnolence and I straighten the creases on my shirt. Don’t worry, it’s no one, the lover says.