I am that gash in her soul.
Once I loved her, really loved her. And she loved me, and it was so fucking beautiful.
Once. That pendulum swings to and fro. We're here, and then we're—
How can that rare beauty be rendered irrelevant, intangible when I still feel so damn much?
Does all that energy, that glory, that significance simply dissolve? Turn to smoke? To nothing?
It can't. It just can't.
Are the moments that shape us absolutely random? Is time not fluid?
I made promises to them, to her. Especially to her. Promises I still burn to keep.