*featured Image: Souce of Beauty by Mara Lefebvre
I. The epoch of resuscitation. The epoch of meeting during our first months sober. Of learning you through screens, worlds shrunk to a single room. The epoch of promises, of text message poetry, the endless beauty that rests in the potential of who someone could be. Of looking in your eyes for the first time and knowing one of us has to disappoint the other in the end. The epoch of seeing and being seen. Of knowing I could never be the one to let you go. Of a leg yet untouched by your fingertips.
II. The epoch of waiting for you to say I love you first. Of your red shirt seared in my memory, dogs in a shaded driveway, two breaths lost to the massive expanse of cosmic space and time suspended in a single moment. The epoch of planets shifting axes. Of the splintering center. The epoch of calluses, of elation, of holding hands in an AA meeting. The epoch of floating, of joined solitudes, of a universe built between two palms.
III. The epoch of the intimacy of sharing a closet. The epoch of static, of gentleness, a loose eyelash on your cheek. Of three doves on a windowsill, leather jackets, pale blue tiles, my heart beating in your hands. The epoch of too many cigarettes. Of eight stories of concrete. Of gathering light, of learning the same thing can be so easy and so hard at the same time. The epoch of first tattoos. Of board games. Of shattering. Of forgiveness.
IV. The epoch of tiramisu in bed on a Saturday morning. Of sharing soap, of rituals, what it means to live a thousand lifetimes within a year, knowing your mother will never love me and pretending it won’t matter someday. The epoch of organizing socks. Of grocery lists, of intricacy. The epoch of lavender sheets, of you coming home to me, the way everything else feels so small. Of sleep talking, post-it notes in a lunch bag, back porch thunderstorms, letting in the rain. The epoch of choosing to stay. Of dancing in the kitchen and meaning it. Of quitting the cigarettes, inexhaustible devotion, your hands an inch from mine every night. The epoch of blooming, of the soundtrack of your laughter, of holding you in nightmares, of permanence.
V. The epoch of the last time we’ll ever sleep together. The epoch of paralysis. Of wishing I could hear you snore again. Of the last time we kissed feeling exactly like the first, of the immeasurable distance between two halves of a world torn apart. The epoch of a heart falling out of a chest. The epoch of overwatering, of claw marks, entrenchment, sedation, knowing nothing will feel like this again. The epoch of tracing veins. Of bargaining. Of knowing I could never hate you if I tried. The epoch of an empty apartment with your laundry in the basket. The epoch of remembering there was love in other places before you. The epoch of wanting to forget.
VI. The epoch of growing skin cells you’ll never touch. Of lasting grief, dying flowers on the kitchen table, the solace of alternate timelines, of wishing it could have been this one. The epoch of eternal tightness in my chest. The epoch of fleeting, of stuttering, of blanket forts, of entropy, of sacrifice. The epoch of wishing love could have been enough. The epoch of realizing it never is.
