The night our worlds collided, You were the becoming of me, and I, yours.
You wrapped yourself around me in a way, impeding any inch of me to slip through your fingers.
I remember mapping your skin and reaching your lips then gasping, breathing heavily into you, on you, and with you, soaking the entirety of your caramel skin and bare soul.
As I lay beside you, I felt strangely empty then all too fulfilled as if I were overflowing with your existence and mine.
Darling, you were both, challenging and comforting, you subtly drew me within you, later unbuttoned the intimate corners of my mind, and thoroughly savored every bit of me. The night our worlds collided, you were the becoming of me, and I, yours.
-a.ch// the night we happened
This Sunday afternoon, I decided to clean my house and redecorate it. It was long overdue, I’d been putting it off for a month or two now. While cleaning, I happened upon a carton of books.
The books that I fondly read and re-read when I was seventeen. I had a habit of marking intriguing lines, words, quotes, and dialogues, well, I still do. I surfed through a couple of them and began reminiscing. I felt skittish, and for some reason, there were butterflies in my stomach as I recalled the glorious days of awkward teenage years. Of course, I’m exaggerating for effect. But, I sure was a hopeless romantic as I am now and the books I read only enabled the young lover in me. With each book, I reacquainted myself with the memories attached to it. My brain, was flooded with these thoughts, and emotions were on overdrive as I was emptying the carton.
And, there it was, my favorite book, the book responsible for the epic love of a lifetime. The book I fell asleep with, and woke up to, rolled over to the other side of the bed, the book filled with little notes and the initials of two names outlined with a heart, the book I used to quote love letters, the book that you gave me, our book.
I picked up our book as if it were a newborn baby, I stared at the cover for a few minutes and hesitantly opened it. A withered Tulip fell from it, the Tulip you stole from Mrs. Lynn’s garden. It was a late winter evening, and we went to the pier with a bottle of cheap alcohol. We were drunk and dancing under the soft light of the lamppost. Then, like a typical lovesick moment in a book, you kissed me. Funnily enough, I can still feel the taste of the alcohol on your lips. That evening marked the beginning of our epic love. I stuck the Tulip in our book as a souvenir, to secure our memory. Years after, my heart’s fluttering as I relearn the rhythm we danced to that evening. I think, I’ll store the winters where my heart belongs the most to ensure that there will be several years after.
~a.ch// fragments of fond memories// young love