By Precious P., Chelsea, MA
Author's note: I hope to share my experiences with the readers through this second novel, to establish a deep... Show full author's note »
I lean back and close my eyes when there is nothing else to focus on, when I don't have to push you to the back of my mind. I rewind the hands of time, restring the beads of the infinite circlet, the emblem of my heart, the token of my memories of you. All I can think about throughout the day and night is your voice. All I can feel is my own giddy excitement. All I can taste is the cool breeze that bares the slightest hint of summer's end. All I can say is,
"How perfect was that first night?"
All I can recall is the feel of your hands gripping my shoulders in a firm but gentle grasp as you steered me in the right dirrection, my hair fluttering in the wind as I stood on the scooter. All I want to do is talk to you. All I want to know is: What did you feel, or did you feel anything at all? All I have to hang on to is the day when I met you, and this is what I will continue to do
unless there comes to be something else.
It is quite a bit that I ignite the flame of the instant connection between you and I, recreate the memory and piece together the puzzle of that blessed golden Saturday. My dreams are not much more than fantasies: bits of memories, fragments of hope, doubtful and uncertain reflection. What frequently continues to send me tumbling into pleasant recollection is the way so many of these jumbled fragments can come together into a significantly perfect picture that rekindles my love. What leaves me breathless is the sense of reality in these dreams. The effects are long-lasting, and I wake up with the same fluttering and racing heartbeat. The same desire and affection creep into my mind and course through me with a driving force, and the same heated blush burns my cheeks with a radiant fire so blinding it would light up the world.
They say dreams are nothing but pictures in your head,
but that first day was not, has never been, nor will it ever be a dream. That festive September day and clear breezy autumn night is what I can hold onto, simply, because I know it was real, and in that moment, nothing else mattered but you.