I think about you. Sometimes it's been a week and suddenly you're trolling a clever thought. Recently, it has been less sudden; a chronic soreness that when prodded feels just like your skin.
And I take your hand and walk down that road. At the intersection we decide to head for the magnificent corniness of the sunset. While our shadows grow longer we come together, finally, in the beauty and loss and inevitability of endings.
And I let myself look up, your face is a mask and your posture rigid, Lonelily, I go to a bar. I get a beer and flip off the need to exist with my Kindle. Your clique is right behind me, the noise changes. We watch the way your proxy's shoulders don't move as he steps toward me; he means to cut me down and I trip him before he gets close enough. The cacophony of the claque is ear splitting: I am unhinged, paranoid, crazy. Bemused by the drama I look at you indifferently. I limp a little, as I walk away.
And I let you take shape in front of me. The distance between us changes. It expends and contracts like a rubber band. Heat builds, we relearn forgotten features, the color of your skin, the color of mine. The moment petrifies just as tendrils of desire start enveloping us. It becomes a monument to forever after, a thought unthinkable, an exquisite work in marble where the jagged edges have been softened by water and sand.