That Perfect Facsimile

Time may stop—hold, for a moment—while that perfect facsimile of an idea flashes before my eyes and heart and a sudden spasm of undeniable nostalgia washes over me, and for a second it's Valentine's Day, 2009—holding a bouquet of blood-red roses—holding her tightly and kissing her and being stupid enough to believe those three disgustingly falsified words—smiling and believing and seeing beauty everywhere, shooting from our fingertips, leaking past our pupils, budding from our lips—just beauty, beauty, beauty—beauty erupting and being swallowed by beauty.