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We will meet on the kind of day that belongs to late spring or early fall. The sun is bright but not sunny, warm but not hot. The breeze is gentle, but not soft, cool but not chilly. The trees are bright and leafy, and the birds that flit through them are not yet bowed by the day. The grass is lush and still smells sweetly of lingering dew.
We will meet by forceful happenstance, as though the universe, tired and bored of subtle hints and gentle nudges, throws us together, nudges our fates into one with a barely perceptible clunk.
We will meet and talk as strangers might, our conversation full of nothings and everythings, weather and darkest desires discussed in the same breath. We will talk, as we talk, as old companions might after a while away, with growing closeness and ease, as though our nonchalance around each other is a muscle left to atrophy, flexing once more.
Our attraction, such as it is, is immediate yet gentle, gathering impetus and strength as a boulder rolling downhill might, becoming stronger and faster until it is an unstoppable inevitability.
We will part as old lovers might, full of sorrow at the parting, but with hearts full of certainty that we shall meet again.
Perhaps, we will think with matching smiles in our hearts, that time we may not part at all.
So this is a sort of somethingness and nothingness, to be honest. I wrote it last night at like 2:30 in the morning, and thought that it might be worth doing something with.
Or it might not.
Who knows?
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