There is a place between Southern and Northern California. 

Limbo. Purgatory. The Central Valley. 

Not dead, not really awake. 

A soulless place. 

Where my life was small and my voice quiet. 

And you stood faraway and waited for me. 

Underneath red and orange sunsets I lifted my head from my work, and there you were, silent and watching. 

In the night you came to me, and traced my body with your fingertips. 

And in the space between night and dawn, that blue hue that fell over both of our bodies. 

You asked me to marry you. 

I could not have written you. And in my dreams I never dared.

Your love is not a gesture, it is my destiny. 

I will never be the same.