It is these conversations, words that make any of this worthwhile. It is that you are here, now. It is how you are here now. It is your scent in the morning, your tired arms lazy but firm; you a graveyard to bury myself into the way my face burrows into the blankets covering your chest. The way light dances on your tired eyelids through lacy windows, the way it always must have and I am only seeing it for the first time.

It is so much beauty, imagined, to exist in one moment that everything liquefies anew. Instead of a tidal wave pushing through every dam and inhibition to ravenously consume, it trickles in from the outside, salty rain eroding the fabric of being. Tired and desperate, it is no longer sure or if it's willing to discover anything that might eventually, most probably, reveal itself. It is, quite possible, at this stage, that it is only interested in quietly vanishing from existence like the smoke that every so often gets waved out of the way once a candle goes out.