I awake in a building surrounded by serfs to spoons and idolaters to their ecstasy. The
gallant grey walls of apartment 124 wither amongst the white window panes. The
sleeping woman beside me blacked out over two years ago. Or at least that’s what
she claims.

Bang! The bellowing blast shivers throughout my spine and I glance towards the
window. It wasn’t a bullet. Just a car.

She doesn’t move. She stays silent in the gallows of her sleep.

The TV flickers back on. A sadly executed commercial about a pointless product hooks
me for the moment. An old man and a young woman talk with long glaring looks
about life insurance policies.

Anna stirs, she realizes I’m awake. She rolls over and puts a hand on my back. “Hold
me” are the simple words she breathes into the nape of my neck. My hand gropes the
left side of the bed, rifling for the remote.

The TV powers off and I slide my arm over Anna’s slender waist. Her fingers find my
hands and she makes tight little circles on the top of my palm with her ring
finger. Slowly the frequency decreases as she succumbs to slumber once more.

I lay here. I live here.

Her body drives life into my chest and her presence is the only thing keeping me in
this room. This room, situated in this run-down apartment, nestled in this
no-where neighborhood, forgotten to the fast paced world.

Leave or love-in-limbo is the dispute adulterating the molecules of my mind. It is
the exhausting battle I perpetually endure. Days are spent deliberating of ways
to kneel beside bedposts in the embargoed night. The only moment I have to breathe
is the simple seconds spent holding Anna in the early hours of the morning.

The sounds of the parking lot score the intimate scene; the howl of the cool wind,
the hum of a quiet car. Everything works together to tempt the tensions of our
ill-fated resistances.

I don’t sleep. I hide from it. The times I have counted the DVD’s along the wall
in the light of darkness are innumerable. I paint plastered pictures of people along
the withering white walls; I escape in the little bits of breaths exchanged
while the clock counts upward.

Anna tenses. She must be dreaming. She speaks sonnets about situations centuries
ago. I lustfully listen to every lingering syllable, awaiting answers to each
professed antiquity.

While I want, whistle and willfully yearn for the days when each facet of my faltering
life is to be fulfilled, there is a comfort in the complacency of each caress
that I could have never calculated. I know, in this moment, something is right.

The myth of the moment, however, is that it is remembered. Moments fade and the
memories eventually converge into maligned mistruths. They die, disfigured in
the dalliances of a true connection.

Will this die? Will there be a time of day when I don’t laugh at the way she wiggles
her nose before she sneezes? Will I not find solace in a mid-morning text; just
to meander, even if neither of us has the time?

It is impossible. It is improbable.

Sleep begins to seduce what’s left of my strengths. Before I close my eyes I look one
last time at Anna. She stays still, immortalized in the seconds it will be
before I speak to her again.

What do you think? Do you agree? Do you love it? Or am i a complete tool? Any response is welcome!

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