23rd
I used my fingers to trace the outline of her body, the softness of her face. I held her cheeks in my hands and stared unabashed into her eyes. For the first time in my life, I felt transparent, like she could see into my soul; a place no wanderer had ever gone. I was young and innocent; not tired, weary and scarred by love. We both were. We should have heeded the warning signs that scattered the road, telling of endless fog and falling rocks—impending doom. Yet we plugged along anyway, full steam ahead, unaware of the flash flood just around the bend waiting to wash us of our intentions and promises. We became raw versions of ourselves, like a painting where the oil is caked on the canvas in sloppy layers. We became art, as the world around us suddenly lost all its luster and appeal. And we just stood there, frozen in time, waiting to be carried away by the next person with something interesting to say.
