Eye to Eye with the Skyline

I am awake, but softly.

My door is open, the fan blows steadily, it’s late, or early, the atmosphere is fuzzy and warm. The blanket sticks to my back.

Tomorrow doesn’t matter like the night before boarding a plane. Tonight feels like a muted cave in time, a kitchen light allowed to be turned on, the rules abandoned. An apocalypse.

I am awake but I welcome it, I scroll through old photos.

A sidewalk that grew so familiar, Autumn leaves, it had just rained, my new cozy home with that particular smell of old cupboards, tea tree oil, a tile bathroom floor, a window open, a winter breeze on the way. New roommates, my days turning pages, coming home, lights off, a wooden table in shadow.

I found a video of my best friend holding me in my old apartment. I remember when I went to LA and he left me a voicemail saying he loved me. I remember him always loving me. I study the photo of him kissing my cheek, I wish I had been more tender, less awake. I wish I had took in his scent and recognized his warm arms, his gentle laugh.

I fall upon the photo in your old apartment by the beach, the morning after I met you, in your kitchen, eating natto beans on rice for the first time. Summer, I barely knew myself, I barely knew you.

During the time of magic, when you dropped me off at home with a croissant and left for work, when I began to discover myself. I look at this photo, of that quiet morning, everyone at home asleep, that feeling I used to get. I was the colour green. A secret, quiet green. It was fall, you were still new and sharp, still a mystery; this was the beginning of our routine. This was trying out our polite tug of war with listening eyes, fresh like air before it snows. This was when I sat up, eye to eye with the skyline and made a decision.