Love letter # 518
We said no, even though we were on the cusp of yes.
Looking at old phone footage – the way we interact, how close we stand, the way our bodies seem to signal a kind of unity – I see it clearly. More than ever.
But it wasn’t to be. Our unspoken dance dissipated, morphing like song into silence. Not even an embrace. The banality of drifting, as though nothing more could be expected. There are no endings without beginnings.
I ponder the whys, though they are but useless reasons now. Our two dimensional selves still hover within easy reach, like pixelated potential, but the skin knows well the untouched feeling of fully formed distance.
Yet, for all that, I watch us on video and a tremor runs through me, and I know. I even see it your eyes. And mine. A late blooming flower is still a flower.