20 May 2010

Too slow.

It is 5AM, and the sun over the bus stop is rising much too quickly. My face is buried in his shoulder, and his eyes I'm sure are closed while his arms are around me, pressing me close enough to feel that his breathing is unsettled. We stay like this for quite some time in a wistful silence. The tension is torturous, fascinating. A masterpiece of composition. "We'd make quite the sculpture, the way we are now."

--"A sculpture? Yes. The mothers would bring their children by, saying: See, children. This is what happens when you're too slow."

He says the forest at dawn is beautiful, but he wouldn't let me walk with him. Wär schön gewesen.