red.

Just before our wake, we moved slowly towards the window, bodies locked. The sky was red, the ground white and pinetrees black, their tops covered in snow. It was way past midnight, but the whiteness of the ground reflected back in the skies and while the sun hid under the long horizon its rays escaped upwards. I cannot remember whether it was full moon, but it must have been that cloudy for the sky to be so impartial.

The window placed us right in between of the walls that turn into a slanted pair of attic ceilings. He has often told me that that peak, where two sides of the attic’s ceilings meet, is where energy is created – sitting right under it is just like being in the rain: it will pour all over you. I believed him. I doubt, however, that the wind whistled beautifully through the pinetrees, as I know that my mind was clouded as impartially as the sky was. The past hours have left me with my prolactin levels raised.

As I surfaced I knew it was there that I wanted to stay forever. More than a place, it was a constellation of him, myself, the sky, the breeze, my feelings, reddishness, imaginary rain, the snow, his skin, mine, all that I have described to you earlier, and time. A few months earlier, I told him that falling in love is a decision. I never continued my sentence; I simply never thought of why. I guess he wondered, but never asked – he saw me as his poetic muse; a mystery that should never be solved.

If only I could tell him: falling in love is always easy, has always been easy, and will always be easy. It happens all the time. It is unexpected, and once it hits, your world will turn upside down or any other direction you can imagine but never will realise. It is uncontrollable, yet it is a decision – of who to fall to it with. And it never had to be a conscious decision. I simply have not grasped that whole picture to let him know then.

I just wanted to stay there forever. I was with him, but it was not him. What happened was that inside my addicted self, dopamine gracefully gave way to my precious prolactin and soothed my cravings. Although love is a decision, it did not really matter who it was. Telling that truth would only break his heart. So I listened to the subtle whistle through the pine leaves, let it sing me a lullaby, and gave in.

I then promised myself to remember that moment. Beauty might not be true – and what is truth anyway – ; at least it cuddles you with a dream. Speechless of unthoughts, I reached again for his skin, looked through his eyes with sheer subservience, declared myself his once more and let him say it all through his lips feeling all the spaces where a part of me meets yet another, long, long before we two float away. He was my one and only, and I was his. Such crap.