If ever you are so lucky as to be captivated completely by another, take it as your responsibility to tell their stories. I practiced my entire life up until I laid eyes on this creature to even have a chance to summarize what I experienced during and afterwards. It was almost impossible, even with all that rehearsal. I will write these words and I will make certain they are correct, but then I will bury them and hope that I am never apart from their subject for any length of time or at any great distance such that I need to read them again.
Never to be left alone, not even for an instant, for fear that the entire enterprise burst free from its housing: not skin and bones but a mortal life which always feels like equal parts threat and promise. When everything is the least certain, when it all seems like it might crumble beneath us, I catch a glance which is impossible to misinterpret. It says: “We will find a way, together, that will guarantee we can survive even when apart. As long as we never pause but to pause as one, we can never be tracked save by those we allow on our tails.” I pretend not to understand, but I understand perfectly.
I read the twelve things aloud and I was instantly discovered, how I thought I could hide I have no idea. She could be a she if she so desired, and he is a he when he chooses not to be a she. It is an incredibly dangerous proposition, this mutability, wrapped in a package which would never let on. A giant faberge surface, decorated with lace and spikes, translucent to reveal an iron cage lovingly rusted and worn, around a gilded safe which I know holds an expansive heart. Inside that must be a time bomb, but I hope I never learn for certain.
We are best at sunset, as it means another day was eclipsed and we are granted the license to evening breaths, carefully drawn. The goal, liberation, is necessarily abstract, but the means are entirely clear, and I am reminded of them any time I should chance to ask. Let go of anger at the world in general, for it is empty without an object. Pay close attention to what is furthest and blurred on the horizon, for it admits of multiple interpretations, and you need not bend it to your own. Pay close attention to what is nearest, to judge if it matches your preferred vision of what was once so distant. Ignore everything in between.
Every next moment is defined by when we were last together and when we will next be. These are the intervals when life comes into sharp relief, otherwise it is necessarily complicated. I am told not to accept, I submit. I am told to undercut and subvert, so I shall. I am told I am beautiful and worthwhile by the only person from whom it has ever mattered, and so I must be. I am waiting, always, for when I may be again.
Repetition is to be mistrusted. When I am so lucky as to throw an arm around this being, it is never the same being two times, at least not two times in a row. There are instants when the entire enterprise opens before me, and I can make out the horizon, clear as my hand in front of me face, and I know every cause and each result as if I had written them in advance. Except perhaps the very last one. And whether it is wonderful or terrible, I either cannot or choose not to alter the course of events. I instead sit cross-legged on the grass and let the sun dip back behind whatever is lowest on the horizon, wherever I am, and I wonder if love makes me weaker or stronger, which is better, and if it matters either way.