clay or chemical reactions

I wait for the right words. they'll come only in time to commiserate the end of days. in the meantime you are busy, working with your fish and doing other things. it's my turn but I don't know what to do. I waste time wondering what you might be thinking. though you're not waiting for the right words to find me too I don't want to be a stranger.

you coloured your hair for the first time in years. I remind myself at every pit that grows in my chest at the sight of your natural colour on a stranger. the orange is soft and gentle. you want it to be darker but you've also said you're not feeling keen on anything right now. I told you it looks beautiful. you probably squeezed my hand or shrugged me off into a smile.

rereading the pages I breathe into the fact that I meant everything I said. I told you this once. we had been glowing and lost in each other in your room. the light was soft and you were warm and all around me. we smiled into each other's eyes, willing the glow to keep us safe a little longer. I could have drowned there happily, your eyes opening windows and blinds, letting light into rooms I'd left locked forever. you are beautiful and in your eyes I don't need to wonder what you think. I thank you and tell you I've meant everything I said. you thank me and say the same in return. I believe you without reason to believe anything else.

thinking in ink I try to map what might be going on, not wanting to push you any closer to the sink to wash your hands and leave. I wonder how alone I am in second-guessing. you told me you wanted to check that nothing had changed. the essence of the question and the way it sounds in your mouth grates against the way we've been since the beginning. I think about the way we glow and laugh and sing, the way we've danced and held and grown to know each other. this has changed. we were strangers not too long ago. do you know too many of my colours now? I remember everything is fluid and we are little more than clay or chemical reactions I don't understand.

I've kept the mirror in my room since your last visit. we lay it up against the bed to dress and paint our faces for the aliens. I took a photo of you colouring yours. it hangs in a library of others I want you to see. evidence of memories that shouldn't exist in a world that moves so quick, too quick to care for kissing in the pantry or glowing through the playground in the dark. I contemplate leaving us where we are, preserving the gold in the vault. do I let you run like water? is it better to speak or keep you safe in memory? what do you want me to do?