wrapped in the blue afghan, earl grey, television at a dull mumble in the background, we sit. the couch gives off a cloud of dust whenever we move. or, rather, it would if we moved, but we are stark still. the tea in my green mug has long long ago gone cold. our dry lips crack each time we speak. or, rather, they would if we did speak, but we are silent. the sun is at our feet in the mornings, spilling onto the cream-colored carpeting, and at our backs in the evenings, turning my hair the color of copper, back lighting our heads, always looking straight forward. the air, is there air? i think it has all gone out of the room and left dust to take it's place.

if it werent for blessed gravity holding us down and the cobwebbed ceiling keeping us in, i believe we would just float away, like stray baloons. float away frozen forever in the position of preservation. the same glazed expression of unmoving eyes. hands locked, tightly, completely sure of themselves, but no longer warm. hearts locked, securely, completely full of eachother, but no longer beating. it is true to say that memories do not die, but damn the idea that they live on.