The Artist has his easel and brush; I have my fingers, furtive on the cases of a laptop or running an eager pen on a piece of parchment. To this day, a blank sheet and dark ink remain my image of freedom.
If I forget all that was and that could have been, the bed remains. This bed, was ours. It sheltered our bodies at dusk and dawn, it was witness to our talks, to the rushed kisses and the hours long sessions,when our bodies merged, drifted in and out of each other. In this bed, we had made plans, argued over trivialities, rested our tired bones. If I can no longer remember, this bed shall remind me, that it belonged to two people, halves of one heart.