City lights don't consume the fireflies. A sky dotted with stars appears to end in the horizon, miles away from here. The endless night seems to be ours entirely.
Mornings. Circles of smoke rise from our mouths, peacefully. We watch them merge and diverge. Play little games, between themselves. And form shadows on our naked thighs. Even smoke isn't see through. We gape at its translucence. And then, at each other. Our immaculately complicated opaque selves.
We aren't see through either. You've no idea what I am. And vice versa. Yet, we are here. Now. Our endless nights and translucent mornings.
This must be love. Because all I want ever, is to do apart what's real from that all encompassing illusion. And in that chaos, this love feels real, despite its many tempting tendencies to merge with a parallel dream. It feels rock-solid.