In another life and with another brain I would have made myself pupil and master of language. Instead:
I tiptoe on the precipices of residual memories that spill out from suppressed synapses. I desire nothing but the nine-minute intervals between hushing the waking bells I’ve fooled my mind the night before into believing will penetrate the film of the wee hours’ slumber and dispel the delirium that is made curious by the bright shadows who visit me there. Stillness, brilliance, they spin yarns with golden thread and though rare and stirred by unknowns, some dreams made of memory are made memorable in morning sleep:
We laid together in warm seclusion. Her hair was in her face. Our mouths were close enough to feel still-warm breath spill on our cheeks and lips when we spoke and laughed. I went to open mine to tell her something I knew as a fundamental truth, ancient knowledge passed to me in this moment from a realm outside my mind and body, one foggy with adolescence, but she spoke the words before I could. They’d been forming bashfully on her tongue. By the time she said the final word, a trio hung in the space between us with resounding assurance.
“I was just about to tell you the same thing,” I said, feeling whole, as I had the first time I saw the theory of romantic love meld into the reality of another. “I love you, too,” I said, in what then I saw as truth and what now I call a dream. “I have always loved you.”