She Disappears

We sit together on the sofa, opposite sides. We read what we read, taught stories and laughabouts. We are sipping our separate sips, we experience different highs and lows. There is tartness, blandness, a general weariness to the exposure. Trodden, I think.

Dusk settles, dust settles, it is the end of summer. Day-old air lingers and from the open window passing breezes freshen us here and there. Darkness grows. Looking at the pages makes it all the more dark, focusing fine-tunes shadow.

We have learned to sit in silence. We yearned for it once, back when things were energized and each day had its own definition. There was no imprint yet, and the code we lived by was the code we wrote ourselves. Hand in hand, hand in pocket, pockets on the bedroom floor, we kicked up that dust and every moment was pure sunlight.

She is fading from my view in this room of mine. Am I the same to her? I recall her tender hair, her fair lips. If only I could reach out and kiss her knee. If only she would ask.

The black is blacker, yet somehow I still see her face. I look at the words before me and can see in my periphery that she is sleeping. Her book is closed. She is breathing, dreaming, and who knows where.

It is in this darkness that I see her best. And when I turn to look at her, she disappears. And, again, I am left alone. It is not fair that I should see so clearly, but only from the corner of my eye.