Ronnie is my twin. At least, he’s supposed to be. He came on a snowy night in a chilly storm just like me. The skys were dark and the clouds were a deep gray, at least that’s what Papa says. He said that Ronnie was supposed to be born on the same day as me. We’re supposed to be twins. At least, that’s what people call us. Roxie and Ronnie, the daunting duo (though I don’t know what that means.) Roxie and Ronnie, the terror twins. Roxie and Ronnie, the petrifying pair. I don’t know why all the words have to have aliteration. Ronnie doesn’t either. And he’s not even my twin! Apparently it doesn’t matter what moment we were born, how scary the night was, or how silent Ronnie was. Ronnie came late, you know. Late by just two minutes, 11:59 and 12:01 just apart. So it doesn’t matter how long he spent in Mama’s tummy with me, or how he grows when I grow. It doesn’t even matter that we’re basically the same person in looks, except I’m a girl and he’s a boy, with green eyes instead of my golden brown. We both got Papa’s third freckle and Mama’s almond eyes. We got Papa’s long lashes and Big Mama’s glimmering smile. I got Pop’s right cheek dimple and smile lines, and Ronnie got his own special double dimple with no lines. But we both have our own personalities. We’re still one of the same. He’s got the height and I’ve got the bite, all of them say. It’s a bit confusing but I don’t care for the words. Two minutes apart, he’s still half of me. So Ronnie’s my twin. No matter if he’s supposed to be.

Nighttime is when reality bleeds into fantasy. It’s when the bright blue, clear, and perfect sky fades away and shows what lies behind it’s masterful façade. It’s when the mismatched skies hide behind the cerulian lies. Instead, the stars burst from their cages and shine with their light, assisting the moon in how it shines so bright. The stars and the black sky, now gone but still seen, just as stunning as before yet with a different sheen. The night is just as beautiful as the light it left behind, the light from the sky, the light from the divine. It is still there. The time after the evening and before the sun, hiding from it as it rests, running away when it have return. The nighttime, the dusk, the twilight, and the dawn. It is so beautiful in its magenta auroras and violet lights, so beautiful as the darkness prevails yet it is not evil. It is only true. Nighttime. The time where you can be you.

It was so beautiful, yet it was so short. It felt as if it went on for thousands of years, as if it’s existence defined my life, as if it was the beginning to my truth and the end of my sorrow. It engulfed me totally and proved omnipotent in my world, my universe–it was so ethereal. It was my love. My love that I gave like it was a present for all. My love that I slaved for in return for a meaning to my life. It was my love, and even though it seemed so real, it was anything but. That may have been why it was so ethereal; but I know, deep inside my soul, that is the reason it was so ephemeral. For who can keep what has never been? It did not matter what I considered my love to me, nor did it matter how much meaning it held. The universe did not care that I needed it to survive, that my love kept me from converting into a desolate husk of a being. That my love kept me from losing myself, the universe did not care. I could not keep my love. Perhaps, because it had never been true. I called it my truth and I held it dear when the real meaning to life was nowhere near. I believe the universe was trying to save me a headache, but instead it left me with overwhelming heartache. One I may not be able to conquer. One that may consume me whole. So now, I think and ponder and lust for my love, though I know I may never have it once more. For my love… it was never real. Beautiful, yet so, so ephemeral.