“When you exhale, a part of your soul goes loose into the air and that’s why how you die a little bit everyday.”
“But that’s true.”
“Let me see where your soul goes to and maybe I can catch it back for you,” I laugh.
You chuckle and put your head on my shoulder. “This is nice”, you say. Moments later, in your usual fashion, you light up.
“Are you ready?”, you asked, in between the fog.
I turn my head. “Ready for what?”
Parts of your soul land on my mouth, goes down through my lungs and eventually out of my nose. I still couldn’t catch it all but you said we should try again. And again. And again.
My fingers find home in the ridges of your spine and yours fit perfectly in the grooves of my ribs. There is this so-called passion which eventually entwines our bodies together but it also slowly curls up my throat and every day I’m gasping for air. There is this so-called love which shows up as a sheen on our skin that sticks us together, but it burns me at the same time and I just cannot bear it.