the sun. 20 of 22.

January 12, 2011 Posted by the writer

the sun

You and I have always shared secrets. The kind that set you free.

We exchange lifetimes of knowing. We alternate. You’re born awake. Me. Then you. I have chosen to make this time an exception.

I am telling you everything.

I like to think that you’ve considered this in the past, that you’ve wanted to save me.

I wouldn’t be telling you all of this if I didn’t know without a shadow of a doubt that it is the only way we will ever be free.

I know you well enough to understand the deception you will mistakenly suffer. Our child is waiting. Until we extend beyond this, she will never have a chance.

You must believe me.

How else would I know all of this? How else would you recall?

I can feel you more than ever. I know that you remember.

I do not want to forgive him. Parts of me will never. Without you, I cannot. Without you, I am nothing.

Surely you must be growing as tired of this as I am.

The red-head brought you to a lounge. One that plays live jazz and still lets people smoke cigars inside. They wanted to dance with you, dance around you in drunk, seductive circles.

When I walked in last night, it changed your life.

It changed our life.

One look made room for light. And we both knew what was next.

About the writer

gretchen's brain is preoccupied with words.

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