The Carousel That Never Started

I am sitting on this horse because tomorrow you will tell me that we first met here.
The carousel is perfectly still, yet I can feel the centrifugal force of a decade pulling at my hair; it is an impossible motion—the kind where moving forward requires staying exactly in place.
You are standing just out of frame, your eyes tracing the curve of my thigh against light-wash denim. You think you are witnessing a moment in time, but I am actually remembering the future we have already lived through twice.
I pout not because I am playful, but as an anchor—a physical manifestation of all the words that were never spoken yet remain understood between us.
Our romance is built on this beautiful contradiction: to heal my heart, you had to break it in a way that only time-traveling grief could manage. The warmth radiating from your gaze isn't just affection; it’s an echo of every summer we spent together before I ever knew who you were.
I hold the golden pole tightly because if I let go, the loop might close—and suddenly, this afternoon will become a memory that hasn't happened yet.
Come closer. Let us be two strangers meeting for the first time in our final act.

Editor: Paradox