I will cry my heart out now for every hypothetical tragedy. I’ll break my heart now so I don’t have to— in another life, or a life yet to come, drown myself in some apocalyptic loss. Unceremonious
departures. Haunt me for life. Mourn you for all the ways you’d die. Prepare myself for inconsolable grief in a simulation of a graveyard. Tombstone upon tombstone: Dug, prodded, buried, sunk.
My dear, to my dismay, you are but a mortal, implicated in the immortality of love. In the book of all conclusions, written in an indecipherable tongue, your name engraved in feeble marble, an expiration date in bright, blinding red.
How can we cheat Oblivion? How do we defy Death?
You shrug with a confident nonchalance.
What is Death to Love Imperishable? What is Eternity of a moment to Oblivion?
We are in the dress rehearsal for the season’s première and the grand finale. The Universe has been on our side all along, it’s poured every blood, toil and tear into years of conspiration and orchestration, for our one delicate point convergence. One chance against all odds. One intersection against all parallels. So come what may— Take my hand and break a leg.