Later, At Night. A Pretty Night

So, I guess it wasn’t the beginning of anything after all. Should I write about what happened? It hardly feels like anything happened, really. It’s late.

Leo lay down next to me on the pavement. I moved my hand close to his, just enough to feel my skin brush against his. It doesn’t make it justice to just tell it. When the swelling up of feeling inside my chest is the spreading pool of no longer needing, no longer worrying, the warm satisfaction of abandoning myself to the very serious, very demanding personal process of dissolving.

And then the streetlights came on. Bebe was right when she said we have to tell everything, to make telling our second nature, but telling is sometimes impossible with words. Telling, sometimes, is to watch someone, and to not pretend you weren’t looking when they notice.

The streetlights came on.

Leo squeezed my hand. Every word is such an effort. It’s like being pulled back to things, to solidity, when what I want to write about is gaseous. The distance I’ve always felt from things is hardly horizontal, no – it is vertical distance.

I don’t think I can write any more. I see the streetlights flickering above us, and I hear Leo's slow breathing. Really, there isn’t much else I can say about it.