This Is Honesty

..· ✈Katherina ➳·..
..· ✈Katherina ➳·..

Honesty is the courageous inhale before the first kiss. Your lips become a recording, feeling you smile while we explore. No matter what happens we caused it, a collision quieting birds outside. It’s the soft glow from the kitchen, sole witness to our story.

Honesty is tangled fingers in our hair. The wind blowing it around as our eyes squint from the light. Irises wide, the sun can still get in your eyes when you are looking at the ground. The forgotten shades in the wild as you wait to cross the street. The shine will make you notice, are colors always this bright?

Honesty is the timer, seconds ticking away. Clocks of our construction, time tears apart but delivers me to you. The future is so uncertain, all we know is our knees are intertwined. My tangled ribs become yours as our watches remind us where we are. The hour hand only visits each number twice, lingering with connection, missed the moment it’s gone. We are here now, it is enough.

Honesty is the road it took to find you. The old and dirty windows of our souls, dusty pages we stopped reading long ago. Your smile around me cleaned them. Brought light in corners forgotten, lost beneath the shadows. It disinfected the decay, building new from what was left.

Honesty is next to you in the living room. My hands in your old sweatshirt, head tucked right into your chest. It’s turning down the volume trying your best not to wake me up. It’s your arms curled around my body, protecting me from the storm.

Honesty is a Sunday night. The weekend drawing to a close, sleepily resting on the couch. Our voices are softer, quiet conversation while the streetlights come on. There is no rushing here, dishes remain in the sink. Our palms end up together rising and falling with our breaths.

Honesty is how you kiss me goodbye as you leave for work. The top of my foot exposed as you run your hand across it. It is the unsaid promise of returning safely to my side. It’s the way I could hear you smiling through the phone. It’s infectious, an honest disease. We all die eventually, let it be poison created from your lips.

Honesty is my unmade bed and crying. Sorting through the problems swept underneath the frame. Surely there is an indication of hope saving me from the end. The reasons have to be stuck in the carpet, the sound of the door as it slammed shut. It’s passion that took you from me, my supportive push knowing you must better off.

Honesty is Monday morning. The alarm and commute feeling far removed from dreams. Honesty is the map. We are only two finger lengths apart. TC mark

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