Will We Be Together?

Will we be together? I wrote it at 2:03 a.m. and then stared at the word together until it stopped looking like English. Together. Such a small word for such a complicated piece of furniture.

The Lovers made the question look sacred for a second. Then I remembered how much laundry, timing, fear, money, ego, and bad sleep live inside actual togetherness.

Two of Cups was beautiful and therefore suspicious. I have learned to distrust beauty when I am hungry for reassurance. It can make a cardboard house look like architecture.

Wheel of Fortune suggested timing, but timing has been our favorite hiding place. Maybe later. Maybe when work calms down. Maybe after the trip. Maybe after both of us become fictional people.

Justice brought me back to the floor. What would be fair? What would be required? What would I have to stop pretending not to need? Together cannot mean I do all the emotional lifting while he provides atmosphere.

At 2:27 I noticed the plant on my windowsill had tilted toward the lamp. Even the plant knew where the light was. I found this annoying.

I wrote conditions for togetherness: clear speech, repair after conflict, no disappearing as a personality trait, no making me feel needy for needing consistency. The list looked less like romance and more like building code.

Maybe we will be together. Maybe not. The stranger part is that I finally care what kind of together it would be.

I closed the notebook without closing the question.