How a swooshing of lines across someone’s palm could  indicate forever, I won’t try to understand. See, when I met you, I stopped trying to comprehend. Life used to be all about gaining insight, taking texts apart and wondering what every single word meant. This mind analyzed with precision, breaking ideology down to sighs and shivers, calling the loss of darkness and the eventual return of light more than poetry but a fact of life. I am refusing understanding. To pin this down to a concept, to label it with a convenient term, to deduce from the past a conclusion this early on, to figure out probabilities — these are pointless options, for this, this, dear,  eludes measurement, eludes all preconceived notions that we both have about the world and what forces dare act upon us. For the first time in my life, I’ve nothing else but faith. And it makes perfect sense.

 

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