It’s that bittersweet taste of hope that reels me into believing every single person’s faint promise of love and friendship, and most of all, a soft glowing sense of being understood and accepted.
And then there’s the impossibility of such an experience being any more than a fleeting reality; it’s an impish little phenomenon, this sensation: it fades out of existence much quicker than it had glimmered into being at first.
In its wake, there’s a deafening silence, there’s comfort of solitude and my mind the ripples of which slowly come to a still in the aftermath of that glorious contact with another’s. Yet, the comfort must end, before it thickens to a fatal thickness.