🌄Dancing With The Sun

 

We laugh, sometimes too loudly, sometimes at nothing at all, filling the apartment with the warmth that has kept us tethered through storms both literal and figurative. And then we argue, small sparks igniting over trivial matters; the wrong word, a misplaced gesture, a misunderstanding magnified by fatigue. The fire never lasts long, yet it is part of our rhythm, part of the dance we have learned to perform together.

Our love is messy. Always messy. Sometimes fragile, teetering on the edge of frustration or fear, sometimes burning too brightly for comfort, for reason. Yet it is ours. Every moment we share, every glance, every touch, is a testament to something that neither of us can fully define, yet both of us cling to, because the alternative-the absence, feels unbearable.

We make love as though it will last forever, though neither of us is certain it will. There is passion, yes, but also gentleness, an awareness that what we hold is precious and delicate. I watch the rise and fall of your chest, the subtle curve of your smile in the shadows of our moonlit bedroom, and I wonder if what we share is love or just a beautiful illusion stitched together from moments of desire, habit, and necessity.

And still, I cling.

We cling to passion. We cling to routine. We cling to the certainty of each other in a world that feels otherwise uncertain. I do not know the future. You do not know it either. Perhaps there is no future for us beyond this fragile equilibrium. Perhaps we are merely surviving together, holding onto fleeting hours that feel infinite, only because we refuse to let go.

The rose petals scattered across the floor that night, bathed in the pale glow of moonlight, seem almost like a prophecy. Beautiful. Fleeting. Transient. They mirror the fragility of what we share. And yet, as I watch you sleep, I choose to stay. To remain in the warmth, in the gentle chaos of our connection, in the delicate balance of passion and uncertainty. For now. For as long as the petals do not wilt.

It is a quiet commitment, not shouted from rooftops, not written in grand declarations. It is the choice to be present, to remain in the moment, to embrace what is real between us, even if its endurance is uncertain.

Our days follow a rhythm we have learned over time. There are mornings of soft light filtering through curtains, where our laughter begins even before words. There are afternoons of shared silence, where proximity replaces conversation, the comfort of simply being enough. And there are nights like this one, when the world outside ceases to exist, and the small gestures of intimacy, your hand brushing mine, the tilt of your head, the quiet alignment of breath, become the markers of something enduring.

Yet nothing is certain. Each day carries the potential for storms, both internal and external, that could shatter the delicate balance we maintain. And perhaps that is part of the beauty. Perhaps love that survives despite uncertainty is more alive than love that exists only in safety and predictability.

I often wonder what it means to love someone in such a way that certainty is never promised. Does love require permanence? Or is it enough to exist fully in the fleeting, fragile moments? Perhaps it is both survival and passion intertwined, like roots beneath the soil, unseen but sustaining, feeding something larger than ourselves.

We are living in those roots, in the quiet persistence of connection that defies definition. Every glance, every argument, every laughter-filled evening reinforces the tenuous bond we share. It is messy, yes. It is bright, sometimes too bright. But it is ours.

I catch myself watching you, sometimes, when you are unaware. The way your hand brushes over a book, the subtle arch of your eyebrow when you are lost in thought, the quiet hum of your breath as sleep overtakes you. These moments are small, almost imperceptible, yet they carry the weight of eternity. They remind me that love is not always grand gestures or fireworks; it is also the accumulation of quiet, fleeting instances of recognition and choice.

Tonight, I choose. I choose to remain. To embrace the uncertainty. To dance with the sun, even though the horizon is hazy, even though tomorrow may bring storms or distance.

We do not know if this is love, or survival, or something in between. We do not know if we will last beyond the fragility of now. Perhaps that is what makes it worth holding. Perhaps love, in its truest form, is as much about embracing uncertainty as it is about celebrating the surety of connection.

And so, we continue. Our lives entwined in imperfect harmony. Our passion sustained not by guarantee but by deliberate choice. Our presence together a declaration that even amidst doubt, even amidst potential heartbreak, there is meaning to be found in the act of staying.

The petals on the floor will wilt eventually. Time will leave its mark, as it always does. But tonight, they remain. They scatter light across the room, painting us in hues of gold and rose, and for this hour, this moment, everything is enough.

We laugh. We argue. We make love. We hold each other close, knowing the future is uncertain, knowing that the path ahead may be difficult, or may dissolve entirely. And yet, we remain. We stay in the warmth, in the chaos, in the beauty of the imperfect.

For now.

For as long as the petals do not wilt.

For as long as we choose to stay.

- Dancing With The Sun is one of 30 short stories in my newest short story collection, When Love Remembers. Read the collection now and find your story. Get your copy here: When Love Remembers 

#Makitia #MindsInDesign #WhenLoveRemembers #TheMidUniverse #MidStories #WhereTimeCantExist #AllTheWaysWeRuinedUs #MakitiaThompson #UntilTimeRemembers