A Tale Between Two Lovers

It was almost the perfect moment.

I suppose, it kind of was, in the sense that those slight imperfections fueled self imposed, yet distracting preoccupation. Imagined variables rolled off my tongue in tones that fell just short of deaf ears. Though it was highly probable that my silent appeal was rendered so by shameful, repressed aches; echoing off bony bars that held prevalent tensions captive. Every beat reverberating an octave louder than previous.

The two of us, young and thinking we knew it all, stood a hair too close for people who were just friends. At least, that's what we called ourselves. Alone at the peak of our cities coulees, we admired the hazed streetlights in the distance below; like stars on the horizon dimming any dismay that weighed upon us. Our chins buried themselves into the collar of our shirts, our eyes locked on the tall and unkempt grass stretching deep into hills just a few feet away from us. Neither could muster the courage to face one another, for we hadn't been this close in years.

He was aware of how I felt. Surely, he was. How could he not, when I had professed it so many times before? Things had changed, happened, beyond the explanation of words we shouldn't have said. Yet in spite of all odds, that should have deemed us strangers, there we were.

That moment, that single second of infinite possibility, was perfect. Not in the sense that something happened, but because anything could've.

Anything could have happened.