If only I could suffocate you with metaphors, hide your name behind a brilliant plot line, immortalize your words through the inevitability of poignant dialogue, make the denouement less painful, less real. All those twists and turns, edits and re-writes led me here, right now, with you. A page or a hundred, a story or none at all, for stories have endings, and we don’t. We will never do. Never mind if critiques have always hated the lack of closure — as if in the real world, everything gets resolved. They don’t, but we will remain here, consigned to a fate only we understand.
This is all, this is all that we could be.