The Art of Recovery

"We hold on tight to fragile hearts," my voice is staining his neck, and he turns to me and let's our lips touch. It feels like two galaxies clashing, and they're both making something that feels like fireworks.I feel like something imploding into another universe entirely. Despite gravity we float into the midnight-sky, and explode with the movement of our lips. It feels like new. We evaporate into bubbly champagne.

"Either we're feeling poetic, or we're both horribly drunk," He laughs. I swear bubbles come out.

"Aren't they the same thing?" I hiccup.

"You're adorable," he laughs.

"I love you," I sing, my voice sounds like champagne.

What does that even mean?

I'm so drunk.

"I love you," he sings, the sun rises above the horizon. "I'd write you a new melody for every day of the week," he smiles.

I grin, before putting on a serious face. "Now look over there," I point at the direction of the sun.

"Yes of course," he says, amused as he complies.

"No smiling, be serious. This is serious business," I say in a deep voice.

"What do you mean? What business?" He's enjoying this, I can tell.

"Photography business. Now, look into distance wistfully. Be deep in thought," I squint at him.

"Alright," he says calmly.

I snap a picture. I take too many.

"Put your hand in your hair."

"I'm a model?"

"Shut up," I stifle a laugh.

"As you wish," he runs his hand through his hair.

I snap more pictures. When I'm done, I stand there.

Robyn takes the camera from me, and takes a single picture of me. He smiles. I tug the straps down carefully, and let his lips connect to mine. He smiles, and then the taste of champagne floats into my mouth. I feel extremely tingly and my hands are wandering through his hair. He pulls away to take the camera off his neck. He holds my face and kisses me again, and I pull myself impossibly closer to him. His arms wrap around my waist, and I feel slightly dizzy. He fiddles with my hair, which is crashing down around me like falling stars.