There’s a melancholic light, a nostalgic pale yellow that hovers on the other side of the street. Two windows between this other life and mine. 
A lingering in between, a distance and a closeness.

I remember the same feeling, but it was different then. It was a feeling of being so in love that everything else outside slips away when the leaves falling turned to snow descending on the window pane covering the street in a white sheet. The feeling then of looking out was of feeling at home, in a safe haven of knowing, of feeling truly known. 

And when you are lonely, the sights of twos and pairs is sharpened until everything becomes a double. The two becomes entwined into every thing you see, the numbers, the patterns, the two birds on the ledge, the entangled fingers, feet on the pavement, two buds on a leaf, clouds crossing over one another, the heart in the eye, the pause. And weren’t we all meant to find our lost half? 

I used to believe in “signs,” in things happening for a reason, a certain superstition too of “morning, mister magpie,” picking up snails off of the pavement, a karmic sentence ingrained into equating good and bad and right and wrong, and a deep sense of duty and morality. Those signs I have come to realise are merely delicate reinterpretations of what we want to see and feel, a flicker of a memory immortalised into meaning something then, and keeping it alive through our beliefs in a divine catch. Perhaps it is all just a matter of luck, a laughable jolt in the system when one catches the flower or the leaf and counts their blessing. Our randomness and irrelevant events that scatter our thoughts are too heavy to bear the truth of  their utter lightness. They hold no weight but that to which we weigh them down.