Reading love letters and itching for fountain pen and thick sheets of cream-colored paper.
I lie on Niva's balcony, spying between my fingers: look! Under the crystalline blue sky, emerald giants wave their leaf-heavy arms hello. Our skin is so pink, we exclaim, becoming children again by dusklight, falling in love with the big Technicolor world.
Beyond our pink hands and bare feet and two kittens unrolls a world that vibrates with bookness, trainness, treeness. Around us, a multitude of windows open and shutter, in secret rhythms, codes of humanness. Behind them are eyes, artificial light, hot flesh, worlds in themselves.
Trying to listen to the J Church properly, I close my eyes.
And yet, unbidden, an image comes, and with that a frantic movement: limbs struggling on muddy ground, as a young woman runs, sobbing, alongside a train still and heavy on its tracks. The sky is grey. The trees are grey. Searching for someone dear, the young woman is crying. There are soldiers everywhere, barking.
Shuddering, I open my eyes, a tear rolling inexplicably down my face. Through the wetness, I see the familiar lines and color of your face. My heart calms; I know that I am safe, if for only a moment.
Now I just wanna write love letters to everyone. Slip anonymous notes into mailboxes, stranger's hands, under pillows. Share this moment, because who knows what the next moment might bring. . .