It never occurred to me, not even the remotest thought. The best time of my life was about to become the absolute worst. My last thread to hang on to was about to snap. It is funny how life is just a game of make-believe. One moment you think you're all there, that you have it all, the next, you're not. As Herbert Hoover aptly says, "About the time we can make the ends meet, somebody moves the ends."
That night, the ends met, almost. I remember her soft wheat skin against my pale white palm. Her face cold, but her lips warm. The warmth carried over to my soul, rekindling the ember in the heap of ash that had become of me. It was as if the world us suddenly shushed itself, a time when hearts could be heard not hurt, in near perfect synchronicity. For the nonce, I was there, mind, body, soul and all.
Knowledge is a cruse, a beautiful one nonetheless. I knew I had to let go. I knew I had to wake up and call it a dream. A wishful reality, that night.
That night, the ends met, almost. I remember her soft wheat skin against my pale white palm. Her face cold, but her lips warm. The warmth carried over to my soul, rekindling the ember in the heap of ash that had become of me. It was as if the world us suddenly shushed itself, a time when hearts could be heard not hurt, in near perfect synchronicity. For the nonce, I was there, mind, body, soul and all.
Knowledge is a cruse, a beautiful one nonetheless. I knew I had to let go. I knew I had to wake up and call it a dream. A wishful reality, that night.
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