Couch - by the window

The morning run was good. Music in my deaf ears, darkness under my tightly shut eyelids, the endless treadmill rolling under my tired feet , orrhh the pain !! - a run to the very fringes of deathly exhaustion. I never did realize I had so much to run from or to run for. My legs feel like they are weightless now,  on my couch be that overlooks the road. 

 

The road to hell is paved by good intentions. The road to my heart has been meticulously erased. Newer lines. More and different kinds of lines were needed to complete the blueprint. Since nobody was going anywhere, roads were not necessary. Soon my erasure will begin. I have been assured it does not hurt at all.

 
 I sit up a little to catch my reflection in the window pane. Her messy black hair forms a strange chaotic rhythm as her lanky feet move her lean torso to the beat of the crisp morning sun. I notice that she has a brown-beige shoulder bag strapped across her chest and white headphones in her ears.  I turn around to find you looking at her, over my shoulder.

 

Your eyes de-focus their twinkling to look at me. I can feel the touch of your hand on my shoulder. I place my hand on yours. Your fingers are cool like scented sandalwood sticks. You bend forward and put one knee on the couch. I can see the day filter in a million parts through your wet hair as you bend your head down to look at me. A look that sucks out my demons into nothingness. I turn over and shift as you effortlessly melt into my curves. I can feel your breath condense hesitantly on my back. Your arms wrap around me in a silken embrace, drawing me out for another voyage. Slowly, surely, subtly I sink into honey-mustard dreams, of rediscovering meandering lost roads, to distant, uncharted war-torn lands. 

The sky is overcast with gray clouds that look like damp swabs of cotton wool. The row of trees that line the pavement beside the road looks a darker shade of green,  to the impending rain. The air smells of the lilting melody of fresh dew drops, like your wet hair after the morning shower. The road seems to be like a brand new chalk board, dreading the first touch of a powdery, screeching chalk. 

 

The tram, for home, arrives. Inside the tram, life is back on its rails again. The night and the evening fades away into memory , to become the subject of a crappy blog post sometime.

I made breakfast before hitting the sack.