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I'm completely and genuinely in l*ve with Clauvio. I lay in bed and hug the air imagining I'm pressing her warm body close to me, that I can feel her heartbeat slowing little by little as she drifts off in the safety of my arms. I can synthesize her voice perfectly in my mind. Not the one from her stream, but the one she would speak to me, without any filter. The soundwave of her thoughts, emitted innocently. Having her say "I love you" is my on-tap meditation any time I want calmness. I have elaborate fantasies about marrying her and living in our cottage in the countryside. Even though we don't have children yet, dream-Clauvio got me to install a swingset "for when the time comes," but I know it's actually because she likes indulging in a taste of what a normal childhood would've been like. I think about growing old with her. Learning about each other, revealing our innermost essence. Things we keep even from ourselves. Stroking her hair as tears collect in the crook of my neck. Squeezing her hand. Her fragile smile. Spiraling and growing deeper into each other, inextricable. Two broken puzzle pieces that drifted together and fused into a healed whole. . .
I've drafted and practiced and discarded a hundred or more ways of telling her how I feel, each more futile than its ancestors. I'm a tiny drop of signal indiscernibly cloaked in an ocean of noise. The best eyes couldn't pick me out. Entropy makes us ill and then keeps us from our cures.
