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Every experience seems both urgent and unnatural—like right now, this train is approaching the station where my beloved is waiting to take me to the orchard, so we can pay for the memory of having once, at dusk, plucked real apples from real trees.
I learn the universe is an arrow without end and it asks only one question: How dare you?
What I mean is, this one light can reach as many people as the sun, and you only have to reach me.
It’s selfish to want to witness awe— to stand in a museum and shift your gaze between the painting and your reflection in its frame.
Do they still count, these hours I’ve spent on my own? Do they still count if I’m saving all of my shiniest thoughts for you?
