Drunk on something stronger

You see me in hindsight, tangled up with you all night, burning it down. Wildest Dream.

***

Dear life, there arrives a moment in your grand design where not every breath demands profound feeling. Sometimes, simply being within the moment is enough.

It may appear as an illusion, a fragile bubble ready to burst with closer scrutiny, but when embraced, it becomes the very essence of living fully. In that delicate space, we find the heart of existence, suspended in the fleeting beauty of now

That is us—Gabriel and I.

Every moment, every breath, every shared glance felt like a dance suspended in time. In this ephemeral space, we discovered the true art of being, where presence alone created the magic.

"You ought to feature your art of me in one of your collections. This face is too pretty to be hidden, don't you think?" Gabriel's throaty laughter echoed, his head thrown back in carefree abandon.

"Hey, I'm serious," I insisted, though the smile breaking across my face betrayed my attempt to scowl.

"Alright, Miss Universe, Miss Pretty," he said with a teasing grin, "but only if you let me read one of your poems."

"You've read plenty already," I countered.

"Not the ones you've written about me."

"And who says I've penned any verses about you?"

"Aha," he replied, his smile widening, "I find it hard to believe that such a handsome gentleman could fail to inspire you."

"Aren't you full of yourself?" I mused, fingers fumbling with the guitar strings.

Michael and I, nestled by the window, embraced the golden embrace of the setting sun. It painted us in its warm hues, elongating shadows that danced across the room like gentle whispers of light.

Our refuge, the cabin, was a sanctuary from the clamor of the outside world. Its wooden walls spoke in a language of rustic charm, a timeless echo of simplicity. The interior glowed in the sun's final kiss, casting a soft, golden haze that highlighted the timber's rugged beauty and the furnishings' inviting warmth.

The cabin's heart beat through overstuffed armchairs, their plushness promising comfort, and a handwoven rug that wove threads of home into every step. Here, the world beyond faded, leaving only the quiet, tender embrace of our sunlit haven.

His arm circled around me, guiding my hands as he instructed me in the art of the guitar. I turned to look at him, seeing the way the light softened the edges of his features, making him look almost ethereal.

"Nah, I'm just as confident as you," he replied with a playful grin.

"Remember how you called yourself as beautiful as the stars?" A giggle escaped my lips, sparked by the memory of that night during summer and the way his breath tickled my neck.

"That's true," I said, "which brings me to another truth: you still haven't shown me any drawings of me."

Like me he was sneaky when it comes to my portrait, as I came to the poem I have written of him

Turning back to the guitar with a bush, I finally successfully played a chord, and with a squeal of delight, I leapt from his embrace and began dancing in sheer joy.

His laughter rippled through the room, a warm, infectious sound that filled every corner. He watched my playful antics with a gleam of amusement, his eyes locked onto my every move.

In that fleeting moment, wrapped in the magic of his laughter and his rapt attention, I saw my chance. With a mischievous grin, I reached out and snatched a piece of his drawing—an unexpected act in a dance of light-hearted mischief.

Realizing my mischief, he sprang to his feet and dashed toward me, trying to reclaim his artwork. What followed was a playful chase, a cat-and-mouse game of barefoot escapades across the living room to the kitchen floor.

I was not one to surrender easily, but faced with the relentless assault of tickling, even the steeliest resolve can falter. I held on as long as I could, laughter bubbling up and threatening to dissolve me into a puddle of mirth.

I pouted when he took his secret back, but the expression quickly dissolved as he leaned in and kissed me on the lips. A peck at first, then a deeper, more lingering touch that seemed to weave our breaths together.

My curiosity about the sheet faded as we surrendered to the moment, our bodies entwining once more on the kitchen floor and across the counter. This cabin, a silent witness to our passion, had seen so much of us and would forever hold the echoes of our connection.

Every nook and cranny was filled with us. Not just here, but wherever we went, each new place became a canvas for our passion. The thrill of our unrestrained connection was a delight I eagerly embraced.

Yet, a thought lingered at the edge of my mind, a whisper that this was too good to be true.