Lucidity

Years pass by and yet we still seem to be standing in the same place. It's always just enough time in which one has finished a bottle of perfume. I paint rooms with love. My rooms, his rooms, our rooms. They're fiery orange and red and purple and beautiful mellow yellows in which there are a hundred ifs and a thousand buts and so many words that fall pell mell over each other and form tottering piles of apprehension. We hold all truths to be self-evident. We disregard all that is said and all that will be said and simply believe in that one little gesture that seems to define us. It always remains a part of me. Him. His words, his voice. His thoughts and his denials. His lies are my secrets. I buried them deep somewhere a long time ago and they resurface now and then in rooms full of laughter and liquid amber eyes filled with more beautiful lies.

There are countless songs on the playlist and though neither of us sings well, we sing all of them together or join each other midway. Join each other midway. That's a lovely line right there with so many meanings in those four words : Join, midway, each, other. It reeks of conviction. The sort of stuff that I love to deny when it's day light and I lie with my legs draped over a sofa arm and blow smoke rings at the ceiling. Comfortably languid.

As if life will go on forever. Or maybe because it won't.