7/17/2010 08:56:00 PM - Once Upon A Daydream

I can imagine sitting with you on a bench on the banks of a small river in some small European town, in the shade of large trees, with the breezes playing with the leaves all around us, and the river running through playfully in front of us. I can feel exactly what we're feeling, as you're lying on the bench, with your legs propped on one arm of the bench, and your head in my lap. I feel my fingers in your hair, and my right hand on your chin. My thumb slightly covers your lips; I can feel them move as you talk. We spend hours in conversation, as people walk behind us speaking a language we don't understand, marveling at our love. Your eyes meet mine often; I see the love bursting from them, those beautiful eyes that I can never forget, or get out of my head. I recite poetry to you, Arabic poetry that I've known since childhood, and you laugh as I try to translate every word, struggling as poetry can never be perfectly translated. You are tanned, no doubt after a few days of swimming on the beach. Children laugh all around us, and a dog barks; the village is peaceful, and the scenery perfect, like our love. We have no computers or phones or passports, we have no identity but one another. We have nothing that identifies us other than each other's love. We know nobody within ten thousand kilometers, yet everyone is welcoming because they see how we love. Everyone can see me laugh as you stand up and put on a show, so entertaining, playing with your skirt, hands on your hips, and feet on the grass, near the water. I stand up to dance with you, humming, and you start singing the words to the song, as we dance, clumsily, a dance with no steps or rhythm; a dance based on love. We stumble and fall on the grass; your hair in your face, my laughter so loud, your skirt becomes wet in the water. We crawl back up the slight slope,closer to the bench, on our elbows and back, staring in the air. You tie your hair back; it's amazing how many styles you can fix it in, and you ask me which one I like, trying three or four different ones. I can't ever decide how you should wear your hair... You're always beautiful, no matter what. As the sun starts setting, we start walking back to our hotel, holding hands, still talking, but the talk becomes more serious as the streets get emptier and the sky darker. You get chillier because of your wet skirt, and I give you my jacket to wear around your waist. We go up small stairways and down quiet sidewalks, the constant breeze our only companion, as it flits through your hair. Our steps are flirtatious as we finally get to the hotel. Ours is room 16, we walk up a few steps, and enter through the old wooden door. I open the creaky door for you, you glide inside so elegantly, and I lock us inside.

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