Sepia is the Color

Time wasn’t there when your pair of brown eyes locked into mine, between chirping of the birds and orange lights pouring over crooked parquet.

I felt the happiest and it felt like forever. I promised this to you, when you were asleep, or when you went to the kitchen to cook pasta enough for two; my dear, forever is overrated but we live inside it. 

That afternoon, you said we live in a space where time doesn’t exist. You said if I heard a bird chirping, I should just think that it is you. Same goes with the smell of long black, or the sound of leaves brushing against each other, or when your pillow turns cold. I should just think it is still you.

But your pillow was always as warm as your fingertips.

Tonight was the first time I checked the temperature of your pillow, it was cold, and the lights were off, and I felt empty. I should just think there is still you.

If time doesn’t exist, where are you sleeping right now?

M.A.

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