Å pakke inn

Du hvisker. Jeg husker at en gang for lenge siden ville du ha snakket annerledes, en gang for lenge siden ville du ha smilt ordene i munnviken og pustet dem mot vinduet slik at jeg kunne tegne hjerter i doggen de laget mot den kalde overflaten. Du ville samlet håret i en bunt og tvunnet den nedover, først langs halsen, så mot kragbenet, helt til håret hang mot huden i myk kontrast. Du ville ha undret deg høylytt, snakket om fremmedgjørelse som om du snakket om corn flakes, og du ville ha strøket meg over kinnet som om jeg ikke forstod.

In English, please:
You are whispering, and I remember a time when you would have spoken differently. You would have smiled the words and breathed them against the window so that I could draw hearts in the dewy, cold surface. You’d gather your hair in a bundle and twist it downwards until the hair was hanging against your skin as a soft contrast. You would have wondered aloud, talked of alienation as if you were talking about corn flakes, and you would have touched my cheek as if I did not understand.

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