Omne Trium Perfectum

One day I’ll tell the story of how we came to be. I’ll order the steps. Create the moment I “just knew.” List the reasons — and there will be many — I let you beyond high, barb-wired walls others couldn’t climb. I’ll build a monument to your magic, for no mere mortal could pry open hands that clung only to my ideas of Self. I’ll paint you as a masterpiece who must have been heaven-sent; molded by the gods from the quietest and deepest recesses of my imagination.

But we are no neat little narrative. Our expository moment was a fit of sparks and starts and stops and lingering chemistry and starting again. This tale features neither hero or villain, but two people who’ve played both roles interchangeably. Our dialogue wasn’t linear. Words spilled left and right until we found bits of ourselves in the depths of each other’s hidden, murky places. We’ve shared no single climactic moment. Pardon me, but I’d like a lifetime of those.

We are the eye of a hurricane whose warm winds marinated and picked up quicker than either of us prepared for. Thrilled by the thunder and lightning crashing around us. At home in the safety of its center.

We are no perfect story.

We are a perfect storm.