The next morning I saw the corner of the world from our bed. It was pure white, and for longer than I knew was reasonable I wondered if it could have disappeared and forgotten us there. But the sound of the rain and the cars in the parking lot lessened that fantasy to a dream, and I realized that things would still go wrong – even if there were much less of them to deal with. It reminded me of that Popsicle: so white that it stopped having a flavor other than the varying hardness of temperature. Color is flavor because the year is 2016 and marketing still lets it be so, and the cats play with a balled up wad of currency because the exchange rate is so practical.
The world might not be there today, and I can’t tell what it has in store. It’s a blank page and I’m describing the idea of it in a note on my phone. Changing the color of pixels by tapping designated screen areas is a modern-day Fill-in-the-Blanks. I look at the window when I’m thinking of which pseudo-buttons to tap. I’m going to stop trying to add order to the blankness, because I don’t need there to be. I focus on your breathing – not the cars starting – to hold on to the idea of nothing but this room. I made you promise me that you would never die, and you promised that you wouldn’t. Because I am wonderful, and you are terrific.
In school they told me a metaphor was a phrase claiming that one thing is something that it’s not – playing make believe as kids are innocently wont to do. You’re the echos of my everything, you’re the emptiness the whole world sings at night. You’re the laziness of afternoon, you’re the reason why I burst and why I bloom. I think metaphors are finding ways to use words to describe what you know to be true and what you hope you can convince someone else of. You’re the leaky sink of sentiment, you’re the failed attempts I never could forget. You’re the metaphors I can’t create to comprehend this curse that I call love. And I am wonderful, and you are terrific, and neither of us will ever die. I promise.