it is the rock outside of your house, just in front of the woods and the stream that run through your property. it is the place where we once sat side-by-side, eyes focused on the woods ahead, speculating about the appearance of cougars and mountain lions and bears. we were young back then. i can still feel the jagged stone underneath my fingertips; i can still hear the sound of the crickets mingled with the distant sound of the others playing a game of tag; i can still see your silhouette against the light of the porch. my mind was filled with wild fantasies back then, fantasies of your lips on mine and your hands in my hair. your sister yelled in the background, though i know not what she yelled about. perhaps it was the dirty dishes in the sink. we both know how neat and tidy she is. i could barely see your dark face in the cover of night, but your shoulder was close enough to brush. we were there: present, real, solid. words passed between us like rapids on a river, and we could not stop, even if we wanted to. neither of us knew of the present, of the things yet to come, and i wonder what we would have done had we known what would become of us. for as time went on, the seasons changed from summer and into winter and then started all over again, and we very nearly forgot about that night, the night full of contemplation and possibility.
and though we may not ever sit side-by-side on that rock in front of the woods and the stream that run through your property again, we carry it with us still. i feel it in laughter on chairlifts, in hands clasped anxiously on wooden pews, in arms linked together on skating rinks. it's etched in your face, in the way you can't stop smiling when you say those words and the way you stare at me when you think i'm not looking. we rekindle the memories of youthful fantasies and turn them into realities with cliché texts (but, as you said, i guess this is love and beauty) and poetry scribbled on the books of life. there are some days that i wake up and anxiety grips me like an iron fist, my stomach twisting into a thousand little knots of worry and doubt, and i can't help but wonder if this is what we are meant for, if this is what our childish selves would have wanted back on that night under the stars, but then i remember the feeling of you next to me and i remember the sight of your face and it all slips away under the carefree blanket of giddy bliss.
i've been asked to brand this place, to give it a name and call it my own. this is a task i cannot complete. it does not belong to me alone; it belongs to us, but to more than just that. it belongs to the feeling of us, to the spark that lights up in the space between the palms of our hands. one could call it love, but is that deep enough? the ancient greeks have given us words to describe the specificity of love -- eros, philia, ludus, agape, pragma, philautia, storge, xenia -- and yet, even these have failed us. need we describe it, though? there is no reason not to let it be, to let it remain nameless. nameless does not mean worthless. the definition of nameless is (especially of an emotion) not easy to describe; indefinable.