The Room 22

9.

Last night, I imagined you as a playground. A playground under the rain, glazed and wet, colors even brighter than under the sun. I imagined you strong and resilient. I hung myself onto you, and you kept me afloat.

Then, I imagined you pulling my hair back lightly, yours falling upon me.

Sand box flooding, the orange light showering the park through the heavy drops, the deserted playground: all mine. The dirty burning grains of sand, holding onto each other tightly, clumped up in the cool rain. The streets coated in water, rivers racing downhill, layers upon layers as if folding upon itself.

I admit to having imagined layers of you upon me, river-ing down onto my skin. I admit to having imagined you in my white room, under my thick white duvet, over the taut white sheets, white steam slowly spreading up on the window.  I have seen the reflection of us within them, superimposed to that of the playground, allowing us for a second to be in both places at once. Allowing us to be both in my bed, both in the playground.

I have seen the rain turn into snow, as you lay within me. My teeth knocking into yours while my tongue wraps itself around your breath, playing seesaw in your mouth. The rain fading, my head titled back, your hands holding my wrists. The sky as if melting into the ground.

Suddenly I remember your mouth finding mine in the dark. I do remember us kissing.