(Saturday, 9:18 p.m.) You meet but it’s not enough.
You meet her at a party of all things. It’s almost innocent, the looks you give each other through the night, the touches that linger far too long that evening. The apartment is too small and she leaves before midnight. You leave soon after.
(Monday, 6:09 p.m.) You kiss but it’s not enough.
You’re alone when it happens. She presses you back against a dirty wall, pushes you up until your shirt is marred with mud and grease. Her fingers burn through the thin layer of clothes, just over your stomach, on your hips and her lips leave ghostly traces on yours, lingering but never quite touching. You bite at her lips and it stings like sewing needles that try to stitch you back together.
(Friday, 11:28 a.m.) You fuck but it’s not enough.
You move in together a week after her twenty-first birthday. Everything’s raw and passionate, the way you press her down, fingers digging in the hollows of her wrists, leaving bruises when morning comes in blue and violet shades, sometimes even peach and red. She moans your name.
(Tuesday, 2:34 p.m.) You love but it’s not enough.
You’re nearly thirty when you buy a house with a lawn and trees and too many rooms. It’s vast, it’s luxurious, it’s pretentious - it’s perfect. She puts a ring on your finger, set with a diamond that reflects the colours of the universe in all their glory, and you kiss her, press your lips to hers and whisper yes yes yes.
(Sunday, 7:58 p.m.) You die but it’s not enough.
Her hair is streaked with grey. She dies first. A heart attack that rips her out of your life. You’re glad that you’re the one left behind because she would have followed you in an instant, would have killed herself a moment after your own heart stopped and who’d take care of everything after? So you swallow your tears, keep up the fight, take her to the grave, care for your children and just stop a week later. You lay down in your shared bed and close your eyes. You sleep and never wake again.
(Wednesday, 4:12 p.m.) You have eternity and that’s enough.
You share the grass atop your graves. The sun bathes your bodies in light. You’re pressed close enough that not even a sheet fits in between. You’re both young again and you can feel her touch and her kisses when you talk. The ghosts and trees whisper of promises and love. You fall asleep for the last time, bodies tangled together, huddled close enough that it’s impossible to tell where she ends and where you begin. You have eternity, at last.
Eternity is barely enough
r.m | published in Fragments | buy me a ko-fi