Rem

This is really happening, happening happening, again. The room is cast in the colours of sunset. Blue-grey and monochrome, they stream through the windows like invisible angels. Now all I see are shapes and shadows of lips cast against the blackness of the evening. It is past seven past eight past the safety buckle that long came undone unhooked and I understand someone's hands are stroking my arm. I am wearing a white blouse. White for purity. I am thinking nothing matters and all we have is a moment. I lie in his arms. Against the black white silhouette of someone's lips, the grey flakes of someone's eyelashes, the orange-red tip of someone's cigarette within this monochrome frame. The flame breathes light and heavy light and heavy. Swirls of smoke. Someone sings. Someone whispers and a kiss. Such is the weight upon me; I am drowning in milk and honey.