We had a big, never-going-to-leave-you, could-never-be-without-you love. Since us, I’ve felt fast and fondly. I’ve had the unrelenting, unreciprocated, struggling-to-come-up-for-air love. I’ve looked for love where there was none to be found. I’ve become familiar with the misappropriation of affection. And realized that my foolish, impatient heart will try to tumble into the next, most familiar soul if I don’t pay close attention.
I want another go at this. I want to try again. A part of me feels as though I’m without the proper amount of time to meet, develop and grow a new us. And when the rest of my priorities crowd my desire for a we, I’m reminded that life gets in the way. It will always get in the way. There will never be enough time. There will only ever be the time that it is. In this now, I’m more than a little fearful that I’ll never get there. That I’ll never get back to a love free from doubt.
I wasn’t worried about us. It was a given. An absolute. Until I walked through our door with glance that broke our story in two.