I close my eyes. It is midnight again. He is another face in this sea of blankets, and I crave the warmth so I let the silence consume the darkness. How fickle they can be, with their pretty words and pretty eyes. How complicated I can be, as though I have never known what I wanted.
We laugh in the quiet of the night, and that moment is all too familiar. I hold onto that wrinkle in time. That is when the magic starts, before it all becomes black.
I could rewrite the words I said and the way you reacted – I have a deep love for all the ways the world could have been. But that is not history, and I am no God.
I have learned there are two tragedies in this life – they are either parallel and perpendicular. We are either two lines headed in the same direction, yet never quite intersect; or, we are two lines that meet once in a lifetime, and go on forever towards opposite fates.