my romance novel

it is past seven, past eight, past the safety buckle that has long since come undone. unhooked. undone. and i finally understand, this presence enveloping me. i am wearing white. i am wearing white for purity. i am wearing white, and i am thinking nothing matters, save for the moment. nothing matters for all we have is a moment. so i lie. i lie against the familiar black and white silhouette of rubicund lips, and grey of eyelashes, of dyslexic whispers and a passionate kiss. together, we write pretty poetry for our dreams whilst admiring the world through wonka's levitating glass elevator. you'll understand my written passions, and have plenty of your own. we discard forever, this torrential visceral trampling, the alive and raging and powerful eternal wound which meant that we died (and shall die) again and again when people around us says i love you; because today is a brand new day. and i shiver goosebumps as i watch your fingers caress the air as you spell out, "i love you" and with satisfied grins we stare through the open windows, expecting a meteor to streak the midnight skies.

the air is warm, heavy and dense; like honeyed silence - it had always been, in this romantic comedy sans soundtrack.