She held on to the bar that hung from the tram’s ceiling.
She looked at me.
I looked away.
My eyes eventually rested on her left hand that held the bar.
I let my eyes greedily devour every inch of her hand. Her nails, fingers, wrinkles and the barely visible veins.
People collect pretty things like sea shells and fridge magnets – even though they will never bring them out the earth with them when they die.
She was one of those things, neither the absence of eternity nor the impossibility of permanence could negate her.
And when I was with her they couldn’t negate me, either.
Three months later,
I rode the same tram without her.
She was gone.
But I still remembered the forests in her eyes where I once lost myself in for hours,
and every inch of her hand where I used to let my soul rest upon.
I desperately tried to remember every single detail of that moment,
the lights, sounds, and the conflicts within myself.
If I could bring that moment back in my head, I shall be safe.
The desperation for escaping this desire for permanence tickled my eyes,
so much that it made them cry.
Rebel 