Eclipse

Everything is partially composed, already written, already decomposing in my mind as we sit and title all the things we cannot define. You share your good intentions, and I share my unfounded beliefs. They both settle into eclipse: hopes obscured by truths. I wonder sometimes what good it does to pretend we can be anything other than what we are. The lines were drawn long ago. If we're genuine, then they don't matter. But I can only speak for myself.

Simple

There is nothing simple about this truth of ours, nothing simple about the way the future flickers over our faces when we kiss. He called me out on it and I denied, but he's right. He's right when he says we should have known better than to play in the night and lie in the light. Nothing good ever comes of deception.