Well. So there, if you think about it, everything's out here (vast blue silent empyrean, sea of cloudless, mightless, broken pianos and water-logged pink pillows caught against logs resembling the last few moments of the forlorn, hearts crushed by the pain of longing) floating, cerebral debris, artifacts of love and hormones and undignified/dignified lust, severed friendship bands, memorized conversations that bordered on a future so certain it would find you together on some porch, laughing at kids.
Your heat is so damn specific, molten mercury running through your veins must find should find goddamnit why can't you find your way to me?
And how all this can exist in someone else's universe, but not in yours, suggests the greatest profanity, but in the end it is also ultimately golden. We don't elevate the mundane to feed egos, but to make sure we are not alone.
Each word, after all, is a bottled message for the universe to read. That sometimes that's the best we can ever get out of it, the knowledge that it was never meant to be, and that we must move on.
And that, maybe, something better is on its way.
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