I have a demure side. I brood a lot. But not when I’m with someone whose rhythm makes my whimsical recklessness appears to be a series of deliberate affectionate gestures.
And you’re a pastiche. A beautiful work of art too breathtaking for me to tamper with. A lagniappe—the most special kind; one that doesn’t patronize.
And we could’ve gone wrong at so many turns. Had that conversation never taken place, we could’ve ended up an erstwhile fling. Had those promises never come to live, we could’ve ended up an ephemeral story that is sweet only in imagination but not in reality. And had we chosen to give in to our forbearance, we could’ve ended up as another set of evanescent broken promises.
But no. None of this is the reality. The reality is we sort out our imbroglio because what we have is too precious to be momentary—a conclusion obviously too mediocre for our figures. Calling you my serendipity would be inaccurate, because I didn’t just stumble upon you while looking for something else. I was looking for you. I just wasn’t aware of it until that night dawned on us.
It really is an epiphany—one without a conclusion. Because it would be a shame if all beautiful things had to come to an end. Or probably we should be bad instead.
Whichever lasts forever, I’d choose that.