In the office of your therapist, you will tell her you’ve been just fine on your own, that you are waiting patiently for the one who will protect your heart, your eyes on the Rothko hanging behind her head, canary yellow stacked atop orange, but what you really want—and you’ll never tell her this, because you cannot bear to hear what she’ll say—is the thing that might destroy you, what can pierce, what can wound, what will swell your heart until it is entirely too fucking big to beat inside your chest, and you won’t be disappointed as long as you won’t be disappointed, and what you’ll think—while you stare at the Rothko and it stares back with all that orange and all that yellow—is that you’ve always loved a good horizon.