Member-only story
I know what you mean about the past and Mr Proust, but the past is far from fiction, especially where you are concerned. When I first saw you, I crept thinking that you could see through my eyes, my soul aglow from the heat searing through me, sweat sipped through my pores.
I held my breath from the fear that you could hear the hastened sound of my heart’s beat.
Chastened, blown away, should I have stayed.
To flee would only leave me floundered on the shores of the seas of tranquillity.
The past might be fiction revised with new experiences, but it is the only reality I know.
I cannot live otherwise.
You live; I feel you.
The past informs my desires for the future.
The pleasure I gain from seeing you will not change.
The hunger to taste you will not diminish.
The electricity that ignites my pulse and charges through my spine from holding you will not subside.
The longing to savour your sweet lips will never cease.
I am longing for the revisit — the kiss.
If I have to revisit you, so be it, to see you as new, every time, anew, the new, to reimagine you.
Inside, the eternal voices sing songs of Joy.
I hear the sounds…
