Arctic

Cold.

Every spot you know in this humongous place is cold. I'm shivering yet these layered clothes have tried their best to warmed me up. Even writing anything won't do much.

It's not an escapade towards the probable possibilities in the next few minutes. I am not escaping from any destinies, whereas the mighty Gods have put them this way. Nonetheless, I am admitting the losing against them. Since I know it's useless.

Those Gods are bored. They simply feel bored toward humanity's routines. No changes. At least none of them were interesting.

The footsteps sounded terribly strong yet lonely. Or gentle. Or frightening. I can even feel the pressure which was given by those simple footsteps. Which are heading this way, this room, this door, this corner.

I let my hair laid down to the wooden floor. The warmth it always given sometimes delivers me to dream land. Yet the cracking sound of a God, getting closer per step to this corner scared me the most, even to go to the dream land.

You struck your hands to my long-black laid hair. They moved closer as they're going to touch my very skin. No, you have touched me. Senses are my pride, and hair is another 'skin' to me. The breeze.

The cold touch.

Yet it feels warm when my face finally met your hands. Like those cats you like to keep in your room. How they always make those murmur sounds as you reached out your hands on them.

"Wake up."

I always hate the voice as well. That demanding and selfish, egocentric exclamation you've always made to everyone. Even to your may-be bride.

But you hardly know my voice. The murmur that sometimes resembles your cats.

Ah. These hands again. As if I'm as light as those trembling kittens, you simply pulled me up and kept this body on your chest. The warmth. The constant heartbeats. The soft cloth. And your scent.

As if I'm able to read out everything. You always hold you possessions well. Even if I'm only your may-be bride. One and only.

I never take initiatives to face your expression. It's always you who started to look, to face, to smell. Even to guess. The dim light you have in your room never solve problems. Though I can always see no matter how dim it is. Your gold, charming-alike aura that keeps resonating to me since we first met.

You finally placed me on the decent chair. Or to be exact, you placed me on top of your lap while you're sitting on the decent chair. You neatly tied my hair while having that "I don't really care whatsoever" look. And thus I had no reason to not to look back at you since it'll be pretty obvious if I looked to the other way.

You softly kissed my hair. Top of my head. My forehead. My eye. My nose. My cheek. My ear. My chin. My neck.

And I softly leaned to embrace your lips. How those always work when you started to embrace your may-be bride. How you always startled to find me embracing your lips first. When you're kindly avoid mine.

It felt nothing. But not when you're embracing mine. As like you did now. Embracing yours to mine. Gently yet over-possessive. Soft yet thrilling feelings you delivered, and the shock after. Your scent became one. Your breath became mine. But no pulse. No heartbeat. I just can read no more.

Is this your way to actually increasing my heartbeats? How you always try to increase the rate of my pulse when you kiss me? How it feels like a mystery and a great victory to have my pulse increase a bit?

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I'm learning to write in English with a better phrase than I used to use. This is just a part of a long story, though.

Dina