What is it that pulls you off the beaten path? The path you’ve mapped so that each day follows the next in well-ordered progression. Where love is constant, unquestionable and unassuming as the cup of tea you bring me before work, when my eyes are half open and the bed still warm on your side.
What is it that pulls you, no me, from that long familiarity where our hands seek each other’s, unknowing. Where the beating of our hearts is synchronised to the passing of the day, mornings, evenings and afternoons, in timeless rhythm, as tuned-in as dancers on ice.
I come into the house the way I always do, hang up my coat, throw my bag down, and set out our cups for tea. But I don’t remember you. Somewhere on the path I got lost, turned away. My hand has forgotten how to find yours. I wait…
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