in the depths of rumination

How do you describe the feeling of clutching throats, swallowed breaths and clenching hearts in one word? Is it fear that grabs me, or is it anxiety? How do I aptly capture the gnawing feeling in my stomach that things aren’t real, or that they’re too real and I need to wake up?

You are a metre away from me yet galaxies away in your own world, and I find myself repeating in my head: this is real. Over and over. You are real. Every breath. Every touch. Every tingle and flush of skin and every contact between fingers, hands, hearts and souls. 

You are real. So real. You are raw and fresh and unbelievably alive.

But am I?