The Myth of You and Me

My father once told me that a happy ending is just a place where you choose to stop telling the story. So this is where I choose to stop. More things are still going to happen, of course, some good, some bad. Some things never get any better. When people die they stay dead. None of us knows why we love, or why we stop loving, or why everyone we love we lose. 
-Leah Stewart

Let's unload baggage before the 27th comes up. 

I hope whenever our song plays, I am there, whispering in your ear. 

Freudian dreams

Some nights ago, you came into my dreams. I insistently blocked off blogging about this subconscious what-not for reasons of forgetting.

But I always carried it with me, fragment by fragment, piece by piece, waiting to be dismembered. To be thrown away, in a place farther from the back of my mind where it always chose to stay.

I remember it in a 2-second frame now. In those seconds, you called me by my three-part name. There you were again, your ultimate detriment. A handful of people can call me that but only you know how to say it right. I remember how you said every syllable, every phonetic of it.

I remember the familiar smell of wood. I remember the face of your aunt and how her mere presence in the house mimicked that of your mother's and even more.

I remember our charge nurse, and what a misfit to picture-perfect did it make that she was there. 

I remember you reaching out and how peaceful it felt to be held by you again. And you know what? In my own cowardly self, I felt brave. God. How could you have pulled out the strings again. You were, you were home to me. Nothing and no one felt like such. 

Then everything was an inconsequential blur. I woke up.

Separated by time and space, back to our orbits, somehow a little thankful such parallels have crossed again, maybe for (insert now or ever), that's all we need.