Well, there are a few things left unsaid...
Like the paintings I made during this time:
I used to ride to her house in the middle of the night. We'd create or just speak in rhythms of our own completions that would turn to compilations. We'd pretend it was all an instance. One of those of which was indifferent to everything else. And it was.
There was a time we'd float above every other thought. Above every other exaggeration. In between all the things we were supposed to behold as real. Invisible. No one could hurt us anymore. And in this, we were empowered; in a reluctant, nearly suicidal state. I always put her in front of me...

We were a fountain of life.
Something to be withheld.

Who would have known?