Six months ago, I was blessed with a moment of happiness so pure and so true that it was painful. I lay on my bed, nestled in the concave of Lol's warm body, held so tightly between his strong arms. I was so focused on that one all-powerful, all-consuming feeling that I could barely breathe. The intensity of the emotion grew within me to a dimension larger than my body could contain to the point where I felt my insides must surely crack rather than bear this unknown experience. I felt completely vulnerable: I could let any wall I had previously built around myself demolish for I knew that I was protected, safe in the utmost confidence that all that my heart reflected was mirrored in his. The beauty lay in the simplicity of the scene. It was enough to lie, feeling his smooth, warm chest against my back and his soft steady breath in my ear as our fingers remained interlaced and our jean-clothed legs intertwined.
Never had I felt so content or fulfilled. Never will I again.
Has it really been half a year since that moment? The specifics of time passing no longer make sense to me as my feelings seem bound by nothing. The difference is that they are now no longer a blessing: I am cursed to lie on that bed, the beginning of everything and nothing, each night, alone. Only pain resides there now, no longer infused into the folds of joy. It is the one physical reminder of love, in all its words, gestures and acts, that remains. The rest dwells in a box somewhere in the depths of my cellar, hidden but never forgotten and whether I want it to disappear or be unearthed, I cannot yet say.
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