I ran through the dimly lit night with the familiar thumping at my neck, except this time I wasn’t running away. I ran to you, your car hidden behind my neighbor’s fence. The seat felt like a purr, and we slunk off before speeding into the night.
Somewhere between ordering food and watching a movie, we brushed our teeth together. The mirror I became familiar with over the past two weeks reflected a much older couple, one that seemed to have a mortgage to pay and shifts to attend. Perhaps I was far beyond my bedtime to make sense of the world, much less my own place in it, but there was the future gazing back at us hardly an arm’s length away.
I found my limbs and fingers tangled with yours under that sunset orange of your salt lamp. I remembered the times you grazed your fingertips on my face and crooned on about my skin like I was a star, like how I seemed so soft and how I seemed to glow. But that night you glowed even brighter with every pulse and breath I felt against my cheek. Your arms wrapped around me like tendrils of light, squeezing me into warmth in the cold evening. I fell asleep in the moon, on a crater made by the cradle of your body. There wasn’t a dream worth watching when I could’ve opened my eyes and done the same thing I did every other night with my eyes shut.
Waking up was a cloudy haze but I still believe the first thing you said was that you loved me, and the first thing I said was that I loved you too but with the words sleepily shuffled around. You still felt like a dream returning me to my house. The highways were empty, and you mentioned how quickly we reached them without all of the traffic. And I, in a naively romantic reverie, toyed with the idea that the universe was made to fit just the two of us.