My feet tap briskly to the bathroom, and I close the door.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
I blink, unfocused. Knowing that this moment, as all others, shall pass — it wrings me like how I twist cool water out of a towel on a hot summer day.
This distant land where I am almost every inch of myself, sing with abandon, laugh giddily, speak my tongue, this space where I let all of me echo into the night — will soon be a fading memory, and I cannot fathom going back to the place where only half of me is alive, the place we call home.
My mind wanders. I’m distracted because somehow it’s also about you.
This place will always be about you.
The thought of you, the smell of you, your generous spirit that lights fire inside of me — of all the place and time in eternity — that we could have met and existed, and atoms collided, is breathtaking, exhausting, and brilliant all at once.
And I know I fight a losing battle. Because I don’t know how to hold on and how to let go. All of my nineteen years I have never quite learned how to capture those little pieces of magic except in a place to which there is no key.
And that sliver of space and time will weather into the universe forever, forever true, forever true.