I miss moments that never happened in my life. Other people's love stories; their fulfilled dreams, jars full of fireflies on window sills on summer nights. Grandpa's war stories, how he met my grandmother at Luna Park in 1922. Things like that... I hold dear other people's love stories, their fulfilled dreams, their piano songs. A sister's pact that held strong throughout the centuries, the ruffle of dresses in French courts, the smell of lavender fields. Things like that... I treasure other people's love stories, their garter belt lust, their rabbits and rain boots. Boys whose hands I'll never touch, girls with whom I'll never share fairy tale secrets in whispers under Christmas lights. It all just bubbles up somewhere. It all just washes in and the rest is indigo.