Like air from your lungs,
your breath s t r e a m e d out in a river.
A flood of words we couldn’t speak.
The air was still. The wind had halted in its outpour of secrets, spilling silence as a substitute into the dark. Your breath painted pictures against a black canvas, arching around and twisting into beauty.
We stuttered and started, once, twice, three times over and over, unable to grasp the intricacies of a language which we’d so carelessly discarded in our pride. For once upon a time, we’d needed no words. The silence had been filled with all our I love you, I want you, I need you’s, caressing our skin, keeping us warm even in the dead of winter.
Now it was stale and stagnant, empty of promises.
We’d run out of things to say.
I turn to face you, but your eyes are looking away, gazing into the deep. The dim light of the lanterns barely illuminates your silhouette. Statue-like you gaze, and my eyes trace the lines of your face down to the hollow of your throat where it dips and settles. I lock eyes with your necklace as you twist around to me.
You’d once said. “I’d rather feel happy than sad, but whatever I’ve got to feel I want to feel as much of it as I can. I want to be an intense, fucking disaster of emotion.”
And you were. Pulling me along with you, sometimes running beside each other at breakneck speed, racing the wind, sometimes dragging our half dead bodies behind us.
We had felt too much, done too much, too fast. We’d exploded into feelings beyond what our bodies could hold.
We spilled over into silence.