Creative Writing,  My Writing


The way that the light hits the rim of the coffee mug, creating a slight glare that partially taints your vision. Forgotten.

The way that the coffee in the mug is still warm but rapidly cooling to a temperature that would make it unpleasant to drink. Forgotten.

The way that a book is turned over on the bedside table. Hanging off the edge, threatening to teeter over. Forgotten.

The always dripping tap the only sound that can be heard. Dripping rhythmically. Like a heartbeat. Steady. Persistent. Yet forgotten.

The way the sheet covering the bed is still expect for two places which rise and fall. Rise and fall. In unison. Still, silent, early.

The dishes in the sink. The ever growing pile of dirty clothes. The half painted living room. The sun gaining altitude in the sky. Forgotten.

Everything was focused on the barest of touches of fingertips. Eyes wandered between the almost joined hands and the other pair on the opposite side of the bed.

Breaths in sync . Deep and slow. Toeing the line of sleep. Lazy blinks. Minimal breaths. Languorous movements. All in the cocoon of this bed.

This bed, the center point of everything on this Sunday morning-soon-to-be-afternoon.

Just these two. This bed. Silence. And love.

Everything else forgotten.

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