It’s the moment after the sun sets. Pale orange and stripes of violet gently paint the clouds, with watercolors. On the other side, the moon rises boldly, seeking for attention. But with every passing second, the watercolors turn thicker, to something more like colored pencil. And they cover every inch, every corner, of what is thought to be infinity. A never ending stream of thought.

It’s the moment after our lips first touch. A song plays softly in the background, but the sound of my own heartbeat does not allow me to differentiate the sound. My forehead rests on yours, your hands, on my back. I keep my eyes closed, taking deep breaths. I think about the sunset.

It’s leaving a place you know you won’t visit in a long time. You run your eyes through every wall, floor and window. Through every crack on the ceiling. Memories get in the way, blocking your view. Standing still, you wonder how time didn’t. You wonder why time won’t.

It’s the moment we are alone. I feel your eyes run through every edge, curve and corner of who I am. I use my hands instead, keeping my eyes in a fixed position. You are stronger than me, I have always known that. I run my fingers through your hair, your face, your lips. Time stays still, somehow.

It’s an early morning after a rain filled night. The remains of what used to be thick, dark clouds, filter the sunlight. There’s a small bird, desperately looking for something to eat. Scents of soil and leafs, of petals, make the air feel heavy. It’s hard to breath. There are droplets everywhere. Some rest on the surface, some glide through it, and hit the ground.

It’s your hand in mine, and mine in yours. Our fingers, interlaced, rest exactly where they should. You hold me tight, then relax, running your fingers smoothly through every scar and bruise. As if you were painting a sunset, carefully noticing every detail, every shade of orange.

It’s the moment we have to let go. My hands, on your face, feel every tear that glides from your wide opened eyes. You are looking at me. You are gasping for air. There’s no much to say, really. All has been said. Still, I tell you I want  you, I tell you I already miss you. You hold me tight, so I can hear your heartbeat. I turn to look at you. Your eyes, they’re looking at the darkness of night. A cry comes out from your mouth, and you let go of me. You tell me you want me, and that you already miss me. Our lips touch for the last time

Maybe.

“The very essence of romance is uncertainty,” Oscar Wilde once wrote. I’m still trying to decide if I agree. Because it seems that uncertainty can also be the very essence of pain.

You get into your car and drive away.

                                  And that’s the moment I fall into pieces.