"I have dreamt of you," he spat the words like they were knives, "Each night - for
Weeks,
Months,
Years at a time," The spittle dried to his lips as he paused, heart thumping in his chest,
as he realized:
Not much mattered anymore.
Not since time jumped forward, when the day stopped turning into the night.
"You burn bright like the sun," her pastel pink pout pursed as he continued. "But goddamn it, I need the moon sometimes, too."
"You want me to change?"
"No," he struggled to get out.
I want you to bloom.
