In The Wet Of The Grass

We pressed our bodies into the wet morning grass. We had spent the night walking around the neighborhood talking about nothing in particular, but now we had fallen in tune with the quiet of the rising sun.

"I adore you," I said, breaking the silence. "You know that, right?"

"I know a lot of things," she said with a silly smugness. "I even know the velocity of an unladen swallow. African AND European."

"That's not what I meant."

She let out a sigh that for all intents and purposes was meant to convey the fact that she knew exactly what I was talking about but didn't really want to address the topic.

"It wasn't meant to be," she told me in order to give a proper reply to the matter. "Our threads don't... tie together. They just intertwine. They mingle and fray at the ends as they reach out for new threads to tangle with. That's all. No knots."

I let out a sigh of my own. I couldn't argue with her about it or about anything it seemed. She just kind of knew how the world worked.

And I had to respect that.