Freewriting 5 - The Night that Never Will Be

So, I'm here once again. Waiting for the inevitable plunge. Nothing is certain until you've boiled an egg, as the esteemed Bishop of Dunwich was incomparably fond of saying in daylight hours. Me and my other...we would sit in that crab-apple tree until the sun failed and he would melt away once again, the memory of his violet eyes burnt like twin fires onto mine. Sometimes there was even no need for words - just thoughts and smiles and silence. Our legs swung absently from the branch, as they have done for twelve years or more. And the wind would sigh against our shoes, tickling the stiff material with a playful platitude. Once every so often our hands would meet - palm to palm like a joint prayer, rather than clasped and intimate. For there is no need for physical intimacy when above your tiny heads is a Van Gogh's playground of stellar delights, the violent blues and purples giving way to the subtle downy greyness of commuting clumps of cloud. And then the stars appear, dancing motionlessly with a sly quietude, forming in patterns so easy to envy. For a moment, everything is still...not even the clouds are breathing now. And then he laughs, shattering the peace like the most delectable creature imaginable. These are the memories of a lunatic. No truth is to be held here now, but that of which lies broken within me.