I returned to what we had called our bed, as we had called it ours with our others too. I remember brushing the cobwebs off our decadent bodies, spinning songs into nails, and writing stories with strands of air. You played with my hair as I blew a short tune into your heart; Do-Mi-So it went. I spoke to you in triads through our nights, but you listened only in pictures and feelings. We should have known that was a sign, but we were blind. We were young. We were content to walk as each other's shadows, hiding in the sun. When contentment turned to insufficiency, we will never know for certain, my dear. But I know, as you know, that when we woke up with our others, we were not surprised. The stars had it read to us as we slept, but without the image and its melody, we did not care to pay attention.
Losing ourselves in each other's eyes was when we lost ourselves to ourselves. Finding ourselves, it turns out, is a frightening trial of faith, a faith neither of us seems to hope to find.