It’s been a long day, I guess. I still feel all over the place. Part of me is with you, out there where we left off that evening a few weeks ago. Other parts of me are with other people. People who shower me with happiness and fondness. People who have been with me for so long that I can trace their features on the back of their hands with my eyes closed. Friends I hadn’t seen since the last time we kissed years ago, but still yammer into the night like it was just yesterday. Friends who teach me new things every day, things as simple and exciting as foosball or as complicated as an inspiring speech.  Friends that wrap themselves around me when I see them after a long time. Friends that have traced their fingers down the valley of my spine or try to feed me stones when they are drunk. Lovers who tell me their secrets and listen to mine when I want to share it, who talk to me about what they love, or who they love, or even what they hate in the same way you talk to me about your memories and experiences and places and other little things. We are connecting, are we not? We are connections, made through a series of hi’s and hello’s, coupled with gestures that show that we care. Who’s to call us friends? Or lovers? Or neighbours? Or acquaintances? Or batch mates? Each connection is unique, like a finger print and we’ve made sets of memories with each of them, and each of them are unique in how then make us feel. Early morning walks on the beach, quietly reading books on either side of the bed, hysterical laughter that ends in choked tears, cuddling stray cats and dogs on the street, loud pool parties, and drunkard love making. All of it are bits and pieces of souls I collect. The places and people I adore are all over me and inside me, gliding in and out of vivid consciousness and euphoric technicolour. Perhaps I feel all over the place because I am all over the place. Inside you. Around you, counting the birthmarks on your shoulder blade or connecting your spots to make star signs. I might kiss the ridges of your spine as you watch the smoke twirl from the end of your cigarette or you might stroke my hair or make me light tea. I might trace the inside of your arm with letters to make words that say what I can’t say out loud, and we might, just might, end up feeling each other endlessly.


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