always in a never.

Yes, that's it, an always in a never.

I read this line and I remember.  I remember why we were drawn to each other:  he was always there to serve as my proverbial chalkboard.  A someone to trade ideas with, to discuss and indulge in superfluousness that has no purpose in this world aside from fueling the complicated souls of two beings.  This line, it means something to me, it resonates, but I can't place the sentiment.  I'm at a loss to describe these thoughts that have been swirling in my mind, convincing me that an avalanche is soon to follow.  But it's quite alright.  I'll let it fall.   Tonight I'd like to be doused in white.

It's because they have never seen you, he says.  I would recognize you anywhere.

This line.  This line is a cliffhanger because I wonder if he is the only one who has seen me - not all of me - but that part of me that has been hidden from all other beings.  The part of me that is only visible to eyes that have been searching; the part of me that his eyes were created to see; the part that I have never known until I saw it reflected from within him.  

There we thrived.  In a space that was limitless, without boundaries, because our world existed beyond the outskirts defined and marked by the banalities of daily existence.  And while our bodies were ever-bound, shackled by chains we proudly dragged around, polished, and exploited, our thoughts, our complexities, our ruminations remained separate.  They were the vaporous tenets that bolstered and buttressed our world:  one full of air; light, but decadent, a slight bitterness to balance out the saccharine.  Perfect, because it was never truly real.  It only existed because we existed, but when that fell apart, everything crumbled into ashes along with it.  Was it ever really there?  I only believe in its potential existence because of the ripples I feel on the odd occasion that remind me of vague memories, of a nostalgia that is too embedded within me to be doubted, but too ubiquitous to ever be truly possible.

And I think to myself that this was the price we were always destined to pay by our snobbish rebuff of all things sturdy and obtainable and palpable.  We lived in a world that we could never cling to with strong grips and longing fingers.  We thought that it was enough to hide ourselves from the fate of the secular life; that instead of strong grips and longing fingers, flowery words and endless sentences would suffice.  They were not.  Eventually he failed me, and I him, as our written apologies lacked the gloss and luster they once possessed as we sprinkled them across the pages of our time together.  But, mostly, we failed each other when we permitted ourselves to create this hollow sphere to begin with.  Bubbles will always burst and when one falls from the celestial skies onto hard concrete - no matter the preparation - there will be breakage.  Of bones, of beliefs, of promises.  

Maybe I was a liar.  Maybe I was a dreamer.  Maybe the two are just two sides of the same exact coin, but I've stopped wanting to be flipped.