There's this constant tension, sometimes imperceptible, sometimes sharp like a wire, that asks, "If we are ultimately doomed for each other, what do our feelings matter?" For I expect our end, always. And though I ache in your absence, with that future parting in mind I sometimes I dread your return. I don't want you fused in me any more deeply.

But there's beauty too. I can watch you sleeping and whisper sweet somethings in your ear, saccharine platitudes that say everything without actually promising it. "I want you forever," I'll say. "Always." It's the feeling that matters then, in all its well-intended naiveté and fuzzy truth. And there's a hope thus inspired: maybe you'll hear me in dreams, finding the love I can't quite manage when you're conscious, and something breathtaking will flower in the world we'll make there.

And then there's this occasional relief, a blasphemous ray of doubt that carries itself like something sacred by wondering if redemption is possible. "What if we could overcome this, together or apart?" Maybe you'll go but leave behind an optimism that strengthens me like steel. And I'll be able to lull away some of the demons that haunt you.

The feelings matter, the memories matter. Ultimately, things are going to be better than okay. For both of us.