“I can’t count the number of times I’ve thought about you and thought of mountains.
You know, I used to feel such… passion. Overwhelming and complete, the kind of passion that sends quasars erupting into the void, the kind of passion that sunders seas and collapses civilizations. The kind of passion that only one in a million human beings ever truly get to feel.
But ever since you disappeared, my passion has ebbed away. Where once I was brilliant white bursting against rich, vivid black… now I’m just gray. The peaks and valleys of me have smoothed away into a single plain.
I didn’t think I was so reliant on you for the thing that made me special. I thought it was something I had by myself, something you ought to be honored to witness and share in. Maybe that’s why you left. I was so wrapped up in passion for my passion that I forgot to have passion for you.
I was wrong. Please, please, I know now that I was so, so wrong. I should have screamed your name into the void as I erupted, I should have sundered the seas so I could walk like Moses to the Promised Land right into your arms. I should have taken your hands and made us the two in a million human beings to feel what God feels when he looks down at His work and proclaims it Good.
I should have brought you to the top of the mountains of my soul, and we should have held hands and looked across the world there, and been together. We could have been brilliant white and rich, vivid black, twining together, bursting like fireworks on the world’s night sky.
But you’re gone now, and I can never make up for what I did to you. How poorly I must have treated you, how poorly I made you feel.
Losing my mountains is only what I deserve. Less, really. I deserve to become flatland, to have the passion, the interest, the specialness drained from me. No soaring highs and dizzying lows. One flat, gray plain.
I do have one hope, my love. I hope one day, like the Rockies or the Carpathians, the tectonic forces of destiny turn my plains into your mountains. That one day you burst forth from the ruin I brought to myself, from the pain I must have brought to you, and that you become the mountain range.
I hope one day people point at your distant peaks, that they stand in your fertile valleys, and they love you the way I should have loved you. I hope you stand forever in their souls, that castles and civilizations are built on your spine.
I hope the people who see you love you the way I should have loved you, that you become the one that millions of humans adore.
I hope they can love you a fraction as much as I should have before I became gray.”
From a collapsing star to a nebula as they meet in the middle as pass each other by, like ships in the gray mist.
A note from Dee: I learned how to spell ‘gray’ as ‘grey’ because my mother was raised in England and let me tell you what, this has been excellent practice for breaking that regional discrepancy.