Do you remember the somnabulant nights?

The warm mattress beckons with a warm striped quilt, where I can tuck my head and escape from reality, so fast, running to reach the world where I belong truly. Where nothing is permanent, yet nothing temporary, where everything is a figment yet everything has a deep rooted reason for being there. Where nothing can be deciphered and everything is a mystery. Where no one in the world except me can design what happens and what doesn’t, who enters and who doesn’t, where I can meet you and sit endlessly, under the ghost-lit tree, where we can talk, falling asleep on each others shoulders, listening to the birds chirp as the night turns into many mornings. This chill in my fingers today, reminds me of that time, when hours could afford to stand still and the nip in the air was just enough to sit close by and talk for 37 hours and more.

Never running out of conversation, or love. Never running out of somnambulant smiles.

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