On the couch by the window

Dust clings to the winds. The skies shriek with the silence of impending war. Standing on higher ground, I see miles and miles of corpses that line the path of the marching behemoth. With every step of their resonant resolve, the earth trembles to submission anew. The fiery white ball of fire burns each and every one of those faces into my heart. Familiar faces. Intimate faces. Reflections. This is a fight to the death.

The morning run was good. Music in my deaf ears, darkness under my tightly shut eyelids, the endless treadmill rolling under my tired feet - 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, as I lie sprawled on my couch beside the Venetian window that overlooks the road.

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, in deference 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 couch is lined with maroon synthetic leather. I can feel the hair on my legs brush against the soft pillows stashed somewhere near my legs. I vaguely remember last night. The dark brown teak side table wobbles every time I put my cup of coffee back on it. The day's newspaper lies neglected on the cold floor. You don't like carpets. My blue flip-flops lie weirdly on top of each other in an entangled mess.

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.

Do I need to shave today? I sit up a little to catch my reflection in the window pane. A plain cream shirt over a pair of worn out blue denims. His messy black hair forms a strange chaotic rhythm as his lanky feet move his lean torso to the beat of the crisp morning sun. I notice that he has a brown-beige shoulder bag strapped across his chest and white headphones in his ears. The blue white Nike sneakers seem to make him glide across the road. Lithe and elegant. You would have liked him. I turn around to find you looking at him, over my shoulder.

Your eyes defocus 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.