I once wondered when I stopped being a whole person. “I felt whole before,” I think to myself, but then he grabs my pale hands and there’s this doubt. Doubt that I ever enjoyed the crisp air of the wintertime making me shiver without the promise of his warm body against mine every night. A heartbeat had never spoken to me in a language that I understood. No amount of eye contact could have whispered secrets in sunbursts and glistens the way that his do now. There’s this notion that all those mornings before him when I woke up, feeling meaningless, wanting nothing more than to stay in bed and writhe in this twisted self-deprecating misery, was just me missing him. I hadn’t even met him, but some hidden part of me, the part that’s hardwired into the way he feels, was deeply aching for his touch. Thinking now that if the days could rewind to the ones that came before him I could record the swings in my mood, absolutely positive that they would coincide with his. There’s more than love that pulses through our veins. The hurt we feel when we’re apart isn’t even that normal feeling of missing someone, it’s more like missing myself. There was a cosmic crash that made everything, but before that we resided right beside each other, millions of years ago, sharing our molecules. We are each other. He’s inside of me and I’m inside of him. We always have been and we always will be.