so when you come backwe’ll have to make new love
Textures. You feel the texture of table tops, carpets, lamps, windows, the way the soap rubs against your hand like silk kisses. You love exactly where you are but your heart is at another mind space. You don't trust it. You invade. You share every detail. You are delighted. You live the moments for some greater value than just yourself. You would do a lot for this one person. You barely know the facts but you know you would do a lot.
"You _know_ me."
"I don't even want to know that much about you."
Because moments past and moments beyond cannot stand against the moment now. We listen to Prufrock in the dark, T.S. Eliot's voice falling against the precipice, just like us, falling off the world of unreality. Some time ago he said, "I don't want to lose you." Some time later I echo in the dark, "I don't want to lose you." If I knew all this was about the fear curling at your toes as much as about the joy that seizes you at the fingertips, I would study more. I would study more about love instead of running aimlessly in the dark, trying to make sense of minds so far away.
The past is a thousands paths, and the future is a thousand more, but all we are now is a love letter frozen in time. So I won't be afraid of all things ephemeral. I won't be rushed to fit the puzzle pieces. I won't fear. I won't care. I will unravel.