by Carly Lewis
Talk about that kind of love where it’s been months, years, and it’s finally the day. Talk about going to the train station and seeing her face, watching her run to the car so balance is restored. Talk about talking, of all and nothing—laughing and singing, maybe crying—all in the span of minutes.
Talk about sleeping, then waking. Of wiggling toes at the covers’ edges because it’s funnier with two pairs.
Talk about early rising in search of fresh pastries—the little ones that look like bells, with the vanilla pudding center. Talk about the last two in the case, a small victory. Talk about the quiet savor of that first bite, and wishing there were three more each.
Talk about existing in the same space. Reading a book. Discussing it. Is it time for a cuppa? Perhaps another pastry. Perhaps two, one each.
Talk about an evening walk, when the sun is preparing for rest. The duck pond looks lovely tonight. Mind the geese. Talk about the conversation, all and nothing.
One bottle of wine, red, dry. Talk about watching that one show. The one that takes place in a different world. The one that looks so much better.
Talk about the days that exist exactly the same as the first, how fast they move and how quickly they end.
How fine it would be if every day were just like this.