I think I could sit here, staring into the distance forever. So many lives, so many times. I wonder how many people have lain here, on this cold stone floor, in the middle of the night, with that single lamp illuminating their surroundings. I wonder how many people have lain here and had thoughts similar to mine. Those of feeling out of place. Those of feeling so very small. Those of feeling so very alone.

I breathe in the cold air of this witching hour and feel an emptiness filling me. Remarkable isn’t it, how emptiness has the power to consume a person? It is timeless, fathomless in its essence. Has no form no shape. And yet, it is so very tangible. It is at these times, when I realize how truly small I am. How insignificant. And yet, this is what makes me feel startlingly significant. Like in the map of this world I mark a spot. A tiny insignificant one, yet a spot. A spot that completes this patchwork of eyes, of souls of thoughts, of emotions.  I exist. And yet, I don’t. Not really. In a world so huge, with this emptiness consuming me, do I really exist? Do I really matter? Am I any more than a fragment? Perhaps the fragment that is forgotten. A tiny bump in the vase, that is missing one piece, and yet no one really notices its absence. The bump that fingers simply never feel. So miniscule, that the piece that fits in there is kicked under the couch, forgotten. Yes it completes the vase, but no one really notices this tiny flaw. The eyes never stop roving, never notice the absence.



I suck in a shallow breath and try to recapture my train of thought. I stay still, talking softly, continuing the conversation. I try not to move the littlest bit, not to think too quickly, not to breathe too deeply, not to do anything at all that might startle. I want to close my eyes and drink in your touch, smile at the flush creeping over my skin, but I stay ever so still. Lest, you stop.

Your fingers are curled around the base of my head as your thumb moves slowly over the edge of my jaw, stroking gently. Your thumb moves back and forth, softly brushing the skin. I prattle on; all my attention centered on that little point of contact on my body, giving no thought to what I am saying.

Your thumb moves to my chin, your fingers now cup my face. I draw in a breath, forcing myself to stay still. I feel flushed and tingly. I cannot think of another thing to say. Your thumb brushes the edge of my lower lip and I look at your face. I do not think I need to talk any more. You are looking at my hand on your face and I can look my fill at you. Your eyes are lowered, a slight frown drawing your brows together. You are completely focused on what you are doing. Warmth blooms inside me at this thought and I can feel heat travelling up my neck. Your thumb brushes my lip fully, this time actually stroking it. My breath hitches I am suddenly scared you will stop. That somehow I will break this spell. But, I relax into your touch when you do not seem to notice. Your thumb moves up, covering my lips, caressing them, soft, and then a little firm, then softer again. Your fingers move gently over my jaw…..

I am not moving. Not speaking. Hardly breathing. It is like when a butterfly lands on your hand and you freeze, so scared that you will startle it into flying away.

Your other hand is on my knee, rubbing softly. Almost petting, as though you are comforting me. I do not know at this point, which one of us is trying not to startle the other. Both, perhaps. So scared that anything too fast, too sudden, will cause the other to draw away.

I drink in the look on your face. Revel in your touch. I do not want the spell to break. Because anytime, would be too soon.