Not unlike days that so closely resemble one another that they could pass as the same, yesterday was much like every other. The day before as well was just such a day. Last month was entirely filled with days indistinguishable from one another; an endless parade, one at a time, then the next after that.
I had all but lost interest, looked away from the chase of sun and moon, forsaken reliance on the cycle of seasons to forewarn me of the impending change in climate. Almost.
Then the world changed: I met her.
So what? Little did she know I had already seen more of her than I had anyone else, that I am thinking of her now, how foolishly I imagine us treating each other, the face I see while I abuse myself. Never would I tell her of my urges. I couldn't. Much of the shine of them would rub off, the novelty fade along with the fantasy.
Caring not which of us was more naive she greeted me, asking the one question that should have been most easily answered; the one question I was most afraid she would ask.
There it lay, parched, thirsting for an answer. Any answer would do, the truth or some other.
Frightened but determined, bold if uncertain, I exposed myself to her and to my great pleasure, she to me for what I desperately hoped would not be the last time.
So far it has not been. We have become not two, but one. Not mirrored images but the same face and self. We rarely speak of the passage of days, the future near or distant, only moments one at a time, then the next.
(orig. post Jun 10, 2019)