I stared at the hole in his sweatshirt over his heart as he sang songs of politics and death while every string his fingers glided across told a hidden story, and in that moment I loved him. 

 

That hole, that little tear of fabric in the fibers of a shirt that he’d worn countless times, washed countless times, continued to stay soiled. It told his secrets: all the little splintered and fragmented nuances of his life. He was beautifully broken, as was I. I could see the pain in his eyes as he continued to play, his fingers deftly strumming to the rhythm of his heart. 

 

But the soil paved a path for new life. That hole had a seed in it. And it was growing, intertwining with my parched roots and willingly giving a part of itself to my wilting leaves. Every note and word that echoed throughout the chambers of his ventricles bore a harvest, and he let me taste the fruits of his labor. 

 

He was a mosaic of glass shards that wounded me with kindness. Snapped my bones with love. Stopped my heart with an embrace. I’d never known that kind of pain. And it was wonderful and terrifying all in the same. 

 

Time stopped then. I lived a thousand lives and danced for eternity in his pale blue eyes. I swam in the well of his veiled tears and I made a lake for him, but he gave me the ocean. Now, together, we swim there. At the place where the stars touch the waves and illuminate the brine of our dreams. 

 

The current carries us as we search for the edge of the world, where the moon smiles and the dark matter of our lives bursts like the brightest dying star. And so we swim.