We meant to say everything.
We meant to say everything the last time that we spoke. We meant to do everything before it got dark. We meant to make it so we would not have to chose what to do with our own limbs from one moment to the next, it was meant to be predetermined. It was meant to be easier, more lucid, that the words would come out the same way that our feelings understood them, that their catching against the open air would oxidize them, turn their corners rusty in a fine film that would come off on each of us. We meant to make the middle more important than the end, meant to hover in it, float in the warm-water present, but we drown in it instead, or we meant to.