The Story of the World is a Love Story

It is a metaphor—that I watch from above. I am unsure of the space I occupy. I sense that I am real but I may be just a concept. I am the author of a dream within the dream of another. It is possible I am here only as a result of your memory of me. I exist within the framework of your mythology. I was abducted by angels, born in the nightmares of your adolescence. 

I am left to imagine, but to imagine was the first thing they sought to take from me. I was told to empty my pockets, hand over my keys. They ransacked my drawers, turned over my mattress. But they must have missed something because my imagination is whispering in my ear, making noises from the other room. 

I run my fingers through your soft black hair. I fear I am trespassing, but you don't pull away. I slip from the ledge into the deep and inconceivable abyss. You lead me to the edge, and with a breath, you send me to my fate. 

I have been falling ever since.

I am falling as I write this.

The story of the world is a love story. 

The story of my despair longs to be.  

Because I am who I am, the world falls with me. You are all falling with me and I am so sorry for that. This should have been over, and all of you tucked, with finality, into the soft bedding of eternity; lights out and the last muffled "good nights" disappearing into the emptiness.  

But, and then I saw you. I was there or I was not, but you saw me, and told me I could not look away. And I did not look away. And because of this, the world did not end and the lights did not go out and there were no last "goodnights" disappearing into the emptiness. 

We sit with our hands almost touching. 

We sit within a distance that defies the physical space between us. 

We sit in tragic hesitation. 

What would be lost if I simply slid my hand to meet yours.