It was late and
We had just said goodnight.
My mind was full with strange North African poetry I’d been studying
And bright photos I’d stolen glances at,
Photos of you.
I was posting a blog about music
And in my ears a desolate Sigur Rós song played
And I looked towards my empty bed with its thick winter duvet:
The orange light, the tiny black and red squares on the white spread, the lumps in the filling,
Made the scene all move before my eyes
It seemed for a brief moment like sea waves,
Like something was moving under there,
Like legs stretching out,
Or arms, and a chest,
Turning, to envelop another body.
There was nobody there of course.
I on my seat,
and you, so far I cannot even count all the countries separating us.
It was only a brief moment,
In which the impossible became plausible and you and me came together.
Like fiction only,
Only like fiction.