The cold marbled floor tingled on the skins of my bare feet as I scurried to the kitchen to brew myself a cup of hot chai. The morning was foggy and cold; the wind blew quiet heavily from the windowpanes we forgot to close the night before. I stood there in silence, deadpan expression on my face, waiting for the water to boil. Dust swan in the morning air – crisp, cold and dry. I pursed my lips, clenched my fists hard and covered myself to stifle the noises, coming from my churning stomach. Inaudible noises clattered from the busy street outside - I peered out the window to catch a glimpse of it, seething with synchronised andantes of the vacant figures under the gloomy forecast of the day.
I just felt a slight pang on my chest – realising we, or I, was too unconscious to remember what the night slipped us into. Nothing happened, really. But I could still feel his breath right under the back of my neck, his arms were wrapped around my waist and as we cuddled, static and unmoving. I finally moved across the edge of the bed – dead in stares. The amalgam of both the warmth and the dryness of the frigid air consumed my ever pervasive thoughts about us – I was not quiet sure of how to feel about this.
I tired to ease them, maybe look beyond the busy streets from the apartment window, or maybe try to sip onto my chai even slower. But I took all to heart, and now my chest pounds to the thought of what I have gotten myself into – and I felt my heart numbing from uncertainty and such a precarious feeling. I took heart his words, his thoughts, his gestures, his melodious laugh. I took heart to everything and I became too overly attached, I thought. I wanted to see deep within the crevices of my heart, that I was more than ready just as he was for me. I slipped through all the thoughts, the euphoria, and the challenges that I thought I was ready for. But somewhere in those vacant stares, I was aroused by a familiar flashback memory, vividness amid the subtle gradation, ethereal in the midst chaos, a certainty beneath the question mark.
Can I look at you again, for the nth time, just to see that I really, truly, genuinely feel and commit aligning with the way I am supposed to feel about you? How is this becoming a problem to my soul, to my gut? How have I thought wrong and what happened along the way? As I tiptoed my way back to his room just to avoid waking him, I saw him standing on the door walking towards my direction. His face had a subtly unperturbed complexion written over it; he took me by the hand and held me closer. His hair brushed against the sides of my shoulder; I quickly brushed it off from my sight.
“I’m a human form of chaos and I can never satisfy or commit to you the way you have to me.”