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

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gretchen's brain is preoccupied with words.

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