An Uncalled Memory (#writingshots 1)
Your hand is resting on top of mine. Was. Things eventually disintegrate, losing their meaning and existence. For the time being, this memory lingered. This is not a common occurrence and should not occur at all. Because if it doesn’t disappear, I will crave it.
I’m sorry, was it your hand over mine or mine beneath yours? It’s not the same. That touch permeates the weight and bounds of skin; the body does not grasp where the warmth comes from but pushes back the influence stimulating the senses.
Nobody knows if the physicality of this contact, the surroundings, the air, and the sky elevate to produce something remarkable or disappear. A drop in the ocean, a feather from a fluttering bird, a memory generated and lost only to reappear when no one calls for it, existing in its non-existence.
