Stretch

I stare at the vast space between my fingers thatI often refer to as 'the universe'. Whether it be that the universe is at my fingertips, or that the universe was falling through my fingers, I always wonder if I could perhaps sew my fingers together and keep a grasp of everything that was ever anything to me. Sometimes, I hide my hands in the pockets of my coat, as if this may help me hold onto the things that I am so afraid to lose. The trouble is that most of these things are not materalistic, and I am yet to manage the art of capturing feelings and holding onto them, savouring them, as if they were the last drops of water I'd ever see.

I remember going to sleep of a night with the smell of stale smoke and warm tobacco through my hair, and even though I hated smoking, it quickly became a familiar scent that made me feel so raw, but so wanted. I remember crawling up next to you and the feeling of safety that I'd find buried somewhere within your arms. I remember my belly laugh when you made a song about me being fearless with skinny wrists. I remember the way you smiled at me when you needed me to believe that things were going to be okay, and perhaps that was the first time I experienced fear.

They were our feelings; our moments; and they were delicate and we did not treat them with the precautions they deserved. I was a love-drunk hurricane who swept straight into your storm clouds and changed everything.

It is a perculier talent, to remember particular feelings, but there is such a sweet innocence in rediscovering something so lost and I hope to god that I will work hard enough to rediscover every second with you.