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A Love Story: Tuesday Morning Aches
I sometimes think about the things I want, a la the glitz to soothe my vanity…and then I think on enjoyment. And that’s where it always comes back to you, how I might enjoy spending the rest of my life with you.
Distrust is a difficult breach to reconcile — for anyone, much less a soul mate. Trust is such a large and grotesque pillar, and love is a bit like morphine, in that, it dulls the pain of reality; double-edged, I guess. If trust is a pillar, then truth is what it stands on — no matter how flimsy the ground.
Christmas with the wrong one is still Christmas. But is it Christmas at all if the only gift worth receiving is someone you once had but who now belongs to another…someone you want back but cannot have because some things are more important to her than love? This is a truth I wish to deny. Tragic, really, because there are no holidays nor festive seasons when the cheer and the fireworks you seek are inside a woman you must schedule to see, inside a woman who must live in two places at one time. You know it’s real when a single text message from the right person contains more warmth than the body heat emitted from someone you suffer merely for sex.
Nothing remains new except this: there’s nothing as heavy nor as light, purposeful nor carefree, fleeting nor eternal as the bond we share. It’s magnetic; it’s electric; it’s terrifying. But I’d rather it this way than not. There can be no adventure without risk, and the same is often said about life: no risk, no reward. So it’s imperative we ask ourselves what we’re willing to bet. And it’s everything. The answer must be everything.
