some things lie too deep for tears to well
Sometimes I wish I could measure love: measure it, quantify it, qualify it, analyse it. I wish I could chalk it down to easy definitions and understand it a little better. I wonder if the love you hold for me is vastly different from anybody you’ve ever loved and from anybody who’s ever loved me. I wonder if some of it can be considered love at all. Is it love if all that was wanted was companionship? Is it love if it always had an expiration date? Is it love if it ends? Is it love if it’s just words on a plate served to someone who wanted desperately to hear it? I wanted desperately to mean it, writing pages of empty declarations of an emotion I didn’t feel. I wonder how people jump into love, fall in it, drown in it, and then wake up the next day feeling completely differently; and in a year; six months; a day; feel convinced that the same feeling has transferred upon someone else. Is love a pool of clear blue one dives into fully-clothed? You climb out sooner or later, and your hair and clothes remain damp until a day they don’t. And then, maybe, you fall out of love. Is this how it is?
I wonder about having had you, lost you, found you. I wonder about the missing years, the gaps of memory in each other’s lives that hold no trace of the other. And when I am in your embrace I wonder why I care at all; to be the only one who has had your heart; to be the only one you have called home; when all that matters is that I have you tangibly here in my arms, in my heart, in my head, in my soul.
When I think of love with you I think of a train that never stops; an endless hourglass; the infinite orbit of a planet around the sun. I think I will stay in the pool until I turn into a wrinkled prune, and even then,
Even with my wrinkled self I will still love you
