she and i

so, what are we? she turned to me and asked in the plaza. what do you mean, i replied, casually, simply implying a sort of unspoken detachment that betrayed everything that i was and felt up till that moment.
i could possibly be in heaven.
she was implying monogamy.
as if i hadn't dreamt of being hers forever. you can't say those things out loud when the music is playing louder. you can't say things like: i knew i wanted to be with you the first time i looked into your eyes. the first time you put your head on my shoulder.
i remember there was a pillow in between us. i remember your uncertain stares and misleading embraces on road trips that would take us there and back again only to vanish sooner than i wanted.
i couldn't dare say those things back then when we both would go home and fall asleep in the arms of other women, or men, depending on what you felt like.
so what are we? you asked again as i came crashing back from where i'd just been. the stars and back, or quite possibly heaven.
i saw the past and the future colliding with this moment. everything would change. i couldn't go back. no longer would it be just about me.
in that moment, those few seconds in the plaza, there, that's how she and i became we.