They are waiting

"I miss" stains my lips. Violet finds itself between the gaps in my teeth. Something in the background shatters. I'm thrown into a cascade of obsidian, falling in fetal position.

I awaken to the smell of Velour, my hands cling to the silken maroon threads surrounding me. It's as dark as the matter my body just sifted through, but this time, illumination bathes the front of my vessel as I uncurl myself; I am dripping wet. Dripping static like an old TV set. I can hear the low buzz. And then, the scene is set before me through a rectangular glass. Coffin-sized.

Long tables were lane lines in the road of this cathedral, dressed in Egyptian Cotton. Fire-lit candles, moon drop grapes, and large bushels of Lily of the Valley adorning them. But the most eye-catching detail, the most delicious, truffle-dipped accent: my family. Faces scrunched up, lungs begging for air from pure joy, smooth hands slapping thighs; wine-stained, overbitten, full-bellied, real, smiles.

The scene pauses here.

I am not ripped from the cushiness of the chair. I am not thrown out of this ink-blot cocoon. I am given the chance to indulge in this moment. This moment that normally slices my lips when I beg for it. But this time, it turns to caramel on my tongue. I bask in the stickiness. I will always return. Here.