one colour

My head rests on the rise and fall of your breath,

as your chest absorbs my tears, like rain on a garden

that has long ago forgotten what it feels like to be thirsty.

But you have not forgotten. You rarely forget things that matter.

Like today.

We lay tangled in limbs, hair, stories and a past

on this wet Sunday afternoon

in a room kept dark from the magenta-fabric of a window blind

and the soft whispers of Simon and Garfunkel greatest hits

 

We only play music that

keeps the room one subdued colour,
because in a world that feels unpleasantly unsafe
one colour is all we need
to find a comfortable beauty again.

Your hand drums gently on the top of my head,

drummers are always keeping rhythm,
your hands remember time
and so you carry memory in your hands, and I relive it through your touch

Though sometimes, it's painful--

The reliving.

But today, it isn't, because there is a certain sense of freedom

that fills our dark space, like the unexpected scent of musty incense.

We breathe it in,

because we can

and because it has been so long since that smell

felt as familiar as it does now.

And we wonder if this is what it feels like

to become survivors.

To breathe in the subtle nuance of freedom,

and have it cling to our lungs

in a dark room

on a rainy afternoon.

To relive memory,

and know we were tangled together

all along.

Even during the times

the colourful world took me away,

and the light from the rolled-up blinds

made your presence disappear.

Even then,

your hands kept perfect rhythm

carried perfect time

and continued to drum gently on the top of my head

as I buried my face

in the beating of your chest.

 

And today, now, in the unlit space we've made home,

I look at the redeemed mess of who we are

and smile because you're still here

and so am I.