The regret never quite sunk in, it sort of faded in the belief that he would be back someday. It felt as though there had never been as much promise in anything as there was in the love I had for him. Hopeless to his every word, weak for the life I thought he would give me. There is this realm of waiting that I stood in for so long, and in it I only made room for him. He never showed up. I stayed in a trust absolutely blinded by adoration, certainty. Somewhere in the pit of my logic, I knew he'd never come. But at that point, I would rather have been waiting all my life for him than spend a moment of it pretending to love somebody else. I became incapable. Only now do I see how make-believe it all was, how I made him an anchor to my life, holding it still and in place. A piece of me has accepted never to find a love as unconditional as ours, the rest of me fears it never truly existed.
I wonder what love is. The way it tickles, pricks. Makes you known to senses you weren't even sure existed. The sensitivity your skin begins to know, with the grazing of an arm, a mere glance can send numbness to cover your entire soul. Turning red, hit the ceiling. Sometimes it's not always easy to tell the way you love someone. There are instances where you say it, even to yourself, and you know you mean it. But the rest of the time, when you're not caught up in that person in that moment, it doesn't really seem true anymore. But sometimes it is. I wonder what it means to know real love, because what is built in my head is only a whimsical hope. It was never anything more. I look at him from across a room and with every bone in my body feel safer than a child in its mothers arms. There is a completeness to my smile when he draws it on my face. One I hate, but can't help but love - mostly for what it's worth. I didn't know much about sincerity until I began to see how much he means every word. How every time we touch, I don't feel so alone in the universe anymore.
