you are sitting alone, and the early afternoon sun filters through the glass and strikes you between the shoulder blades. your hands are steady as they flip the pages of an old book. you smell dust and chamomile, and you can hear the gentle clinking of dishes being washed coming from the next room. your tongue tastes of homemade bread and apricot jam. you are loved quietly, almost classically, through gentle touches and slips of paper with quotes hastily scribbled over them. you are content. not forever, just for now.
