Sometimes you wanted to believe you'd been born to hold each other. In all miraculous ways your bodies fit together, in all ways they seemed to gravitate towards each other, hoover and cycle and collide, but never shatter, never wound in any way wrong.

Even when he hurt you, he hurt just right.

As though you couldn't see his calloused hands holding anything in the the oh so perfect way they held you. You wanted to deceive yourself, wanted to dip into the fantasies of a world where he could be yours, as if reality could come undone at the break of dawn, and all that mattered, all that was real, were the moments he existed within the reach of your hands.

The waves of self-loathing receded. You could breathe when he held you. You could pretend he wouldn't -couldn't possibly- hold anyone else when he vanished through that door. You knew it wasn't true. You knew other bodies would fit just as well in those gentle palms, perhaps even moreso than your own.

You'd meet him outside this sanctuary, outside the world within the world, and he'd reek of someone else's perfume. A reminder, you thought, that he wasn't, wouldn't ever belong anywhere.

There was selfish solace, a bittersweet reassurance, in how you knew he would not yield to another.

If he could, you could've moved on. If he had, you could've left him behind. But he drifted, ever wandered, aimlessly, through the earth. He'd fall off the edge of your world, and time became meaningless when he wasn't there, it'd all diverge, parallel lines, tangents. You'd only wait, wait, wait until he wandered back to you.

You wish he'd make a home of your arms and found comfort in the thought of belonging. You've given your heart for him to wear on his sleeves, and it suit him well. You ache to take it back in the moments he's yours, but find that you can't. It suit him well, he can keep it for a while more. A while more, until the universe brings him back to you, just bit more.

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