Pistachios and Prose

When we were children-

Noticing light through specs of dust,

Time slowing like monotony-

bodies feeling heightened sensations: it was too cold to play outside- skin hurts- we squirm as it warms-up: tingling feels like torture.

It's the little things, you said, that make me stay with him.

Unraveling the easter-coloured tissue paper, making up for the big things is his art form, and I am dazzled at the sun seeping through like stained glass.

It was not like this before, but I eased into it- the metronome slowly built a gait and now we are galloping through this thing we are meant to savour. Except, with lightning speeds, the colours like neon bulbs, meld into each other, everything in life looks like an 80s music video. It hurts my teeth.

But when I look into her eyes, her grace is the same. The warmth in her gaze is kept- with ambers of undying hope. 
Which, should have been lost. Could have been lost. May have been lost, long ago, but saved in the nooks of her luggage. Probably quickly packed in a roll of socks- held up between a cellophane of saffron and a bag of pistachios.

We fled, you know. But they don't.

And then we say: there's no more room.

....

Our hearts have shrivelled into the same size

as those

same specs of dust.