The afternoon slowly falls and fades into the very beginning of evening. Lamps are lit and pubs and shops take on their cheery glow and beery flow; coats are buttoned fast and faces hidden behind scarfs; the bustle continues apace with the only-to-be-expected seasonal urgency as only thirty-three more occasions exist for us to buy the unwanted for the unwanting, the presents for the past.
Here in the library I sit with my desk lamps lit, the fragrance of Frankincense and Myrrh oil wafting through the rooms and the world beyond the windows grows further and farther away . . . here in this shallow circle of light, this pool of luminance around which the shadows grow thick and tower like rushes and reeds, this tiny star speck in the universal darkness of the rooms, I sit and think and write for you.
I wonder what you are doing now, in your life, in your place, in your time? And I wonder if, when you read this, you will recall the details of your life at this moment, at 16.12pm on this darkening Monday afternoon and ask yourself if you knew I was thinking about you then? Did you suspect I was? Could you feel my thoughts? As I pick up my cup I find that I mirror your movements; the way I've seen you, in the past, in some unimportant moment; the way your fingers curve and hold the cup and lift it to your lips, with your eyes above the rim, smiling, with your lips pursed to kiss and receive the heated caress; it was an everyday kiss, an everyday moment.
With no room for a slip between.