His hands are no warmer, the skin of them no softer with time. We don’t glow dirty gold in sepia or speak in secret voices full of longing. We do nothing spectacular to mark the event and the moments sail by, smooth and unbroken, like skin scrubbed clean of tears.
I lie on my side tracing fingers down the soft skin of his inner arm.
I am gentle and unhurried as a single drop of rain rolling down a sheer side of glass.
He shudders as I reach his elbow.
and hold myself still, my breath a bubble of champagne.
I watch for the space between heartbeats, when his heart grows full of blood, then the push of it beneath my fingers as it races away.
I trace the blue life of him and wonder if I grow so transparent
in the silent moments he watches me sleep.
He lays, arms stretched across the table, watching me. No pretense, no lies. Sometimes he mouths words I can’t decipher and his eyes, older than anyone else’s I’ll ever know, change colour with the light.
I feel I have always known him, though only with my eyes closed, my arms around him. As if knowing one body is knowing everybody. As if understanding loss, is understanding everything.
How can I even begin to say that though?
And as we sit there, the light tracing arcs around us, I begin to realise I don’t have to. Words can be a waste.