He said, "I knew it, but from the minute it began, it was ruined."
I didn't know that, though. The minute it began, we we like children, lacking the expectations and heavy burdens people our age tend to bring to the table. We laughed. We held hands. And it's probably true that when we said "goodbye," we should have remained only pen-pals.
But unlike children at summer camp, we followed through on our plans to meet again and clung to what could be; if only it would.
He frequently does me the favor of reminding me that his intentions are every bit as insincere as my own, and in doing so, he paints himself into a mirror reflection of every other man I've known. And I am just the same as always.
So he wants me to change; but if I changed, he still wouldn't want me.
We could talk until the sun came up and still resolve nothing.
We could mend all the broken bits, but the glue would not bind.
I guess these are the reasons why, when my favorite author writes words, he says just what I desire and the opposite of what I have.
"Love is looking at a person and knowing for a fact that they will eventually sag, wrinkle, and wreak of rot & spoil... it's looking at someone and knowing that you will fight them and they will fight you... it's foreseeing the unforgiving and tumultuous clash of your respective flaws and egos and knowing that you will, at times, hate this person... it's taking toll of everything you hate in yourself, in the world at large, and in the whole of existence and despite the overwhelming purposelessness of the struggle only being able to face that terrible future through the lens of another person's company. Love is knowing when you're not that person and seeing a truth so unbearable you ignore it and push forward until you burn out like a twittering, hopelessly over-romantic, annoying little candle at the end of its wick and only ever regretting that you have nothing further to throw into the flame."
He made it sound so easy; as if I didn't have to work for it.
But much like children, we only give what we feel we might receive. We hold back but feel ripped off when the other does so. We refer to tiny favors as sacrifices of enormity and we continually think only of ourselves.
And these are the reasons why there is no resemblance of love here.
Because all the poet's claims are true. And the most selfish part of me wants to cup my hands and hold them out, asking him to please fill them with the sweetest, most pure thing that I so desperately want, but so tragically will never reciprocate. I tried explaining this, that it will never be equal, that I will never deserve it.
But he said, "Love's not about deserving something. It's about giving it out, even when it's not deserved."
But unlike children at summer camp, we followed through on our plans to meet again and clung to what could be; if only it would.
He frequently does me the favor of reminding me that his intentions are every bit as insincere as my own, and in doing so, he paints himself into a mirror reflection of every other man I've known. And I am just the same as always.
So he wants me to change; but if I changed, he still wouldn't want me.
We could talk until the sun came up and still resolve nothing.
We could mend all the broken bits, but the glue would not bind.
I guess these are the reasons why, when my favorite author writes words, he says just what I desire and the opposite of what I have.
"Love is looking at a person and knowing for a fact that they will eventually sag, wrinkle, and wreak of rot & spoil... it's looking at someone and knowing that you will fight them and they will fight you... it's foreseeing the unforgiving and tumultuous clash of your respective flaws and egos and knowing that you will, at times, hate this person... it's taking toll of everything you hate in yourself, in the world at large, and in the whole of existence and despite the overwhelming purposelessness of the struggle only being able to face that terrible future through the lens of another person's company. Love is knowing when you're not that person and seeing a truth so unbearable you ignore it and push forward until you burn out like a twittering, hopelessly over-romantic, annoying little candle at the end of its wick and only ever regretting that you have nothing further to throw into the flame."
He made it sound so easy; as if I didn't have to work for it.
But much like children, we only give what we feel we might receive. We hold back but feel ripped off when the other does so. We refer to tiny favors as sacrifices of enormity and we continually think only of ourselves.
And these are the reasons why there is no resemblance of love here.
Because all the poet's claims are true. And the most selfish part of me wants to cup my hands and hold them out, asking him to please fill them with the sweetest, most pure thing that I so desperately want, but so tragically will never reciprocate. I tried explaining this, that it will never be equal, that I will never deserve it.
But he said, "Love's not about deserving something. It's about giving it out, even when it's not deserved."
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