He called them ‘American secrets,’ I call them my once-upon-another-time. These four walls, I built them from a budding love for that lonely girl in my rear-view mirror.

She was young, broken, and scarred. And here we are, my lovely. This big world with a hundred thousand white lights, each one for a moment in time when we resurfaced from the field of darkness that surrounded us.

Happiness, that, is a beautiful state of permanence. My mind whirs for a moment, circling back to that shoe box underneath my bed. I shake out a half-dozen photographs — those dusty blue eyes, my forever ago.

And sometimes, when I drive down The Queensway in the dead of the night, I think of you, and how awful and blessed we were to have let each other go.

 

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