We used to sit on the floors of book stores with big cups of coffee between our legs as we talked and talked of satire and good music and who we really wanted to be. I’m sure we would do that still if we had the chance, but we inhale now even smaller moments.
I sit cross legged on a big, white blanket atop the bed we now share, wearing only a giant sweatshirt, reading the latest novel I picked up from the same bookstore where we used to sit. You’re tired from the day and we’re low on words for the night. Sometimes there’s a sense that we lost something along the way, that we dropped some valuable possession as we journied from seeking one another out to existing alongside the other.
But then you crawl up, silently, beside me. Without any one word you put your arm around my center and pull me down, farther into the comfort of home and still I read. No need for the long conversations of old, we are molded into a new life of reading on a cloud and no words but an arm around the other. New moments that no one could have warned me about because they are for myself and for him alone.
Arms in tangles and somehow my eyes shift from words on a page to simply staring at the you. This is it, what I always wanted to be, and yet I never would have guessed that at eighteen, dreaming big in the aisle of a bookstore beside the boy who would one day be the smallest moments of a great, great story.