It was at that moment when he was overcome with clarity—violent and sharp, like a near-drowned victim taking his first gasp of revitalizing air. He now understood why men went to war, why bands broke up, why novels were written. She was the answer to every equation. She was the destination that all paths led to.
She was the cosmos.
She was god.
Written July 2012
She finds herself at an impasse:
She has realized her desire for a connection to another, and it's conflicting with her instincts—her fiercely independent, inappropriately selfish compulsions that she has now grown accustomed to living with. Independence bristles at the notion that she finds herself incomplete.
No! t screams. Once you leave me, you'll abandon me forever! How will you find your way back when things get desperate?
"You're mistaken," she replies, "For there is nothing but an impossible ideal that will always clash with reality. I am too attached to this ideal, thus destined for perpetual disappointment."
I know, ighs Independence, with both relief and guilt.
Written April 2012
"What's the most romantic city in the world?"
His eyes flickered open when he heard her pose the question. With her hair draped over his bare chest, her eyes locked onto his and were eagerly waiting for his answer, which came to him as easily as his desire to gently brush strands of her hair away from her face.
"I'd say New York City."
As his callused hands glided over her forehead, he thought about the city in the fall, walks around the blocks (for no other reason than the exercise and the use of time), the way she bit her bottom lip, the curve of her neck, how her hand fit simply into his. Whispers in crowded restaurants. Concessions exchanged and accepted on park benches. She was unassuming. Unpretentious. Uncomplicated in most substantial way. Passionate. Simple. complete. She washed over him like the most refreshing wave. A wave he would give happily to drown in.
"Not sure. I can't explain it."
Written August 2011