If I should reach out would you remember, still, the touch of my hand or perhaps the smell of my neck?
Such is intimacy.
At times both safe and ruinous. At once both familiar and queer.
Like a portrait capturing a single moment from a thousand brushstrokes, every story has led us here, to this time and to this place.
Every whispered word, every raucous pushback, has overtaken the one before. As if each moment were the only one to exist, forever.
Maybe it’s true.
Maybe this moment is the only one that ever really mattered to us. Standing somewhere, as we so often do, between bedrock and clouds.
Image Credit: Pixabay
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