I fell in love with the idea of you. I fell in love with the concept of the 1 a.m. discussions that we would have about politics, God, and the meaning of life. How we would disagree on all of the unimportant details but would come together on the major issues that would shape our lives.
I fell in love with thoughts of the silly trips that we would take to little shops and hole-in-the-wall restaurants where we would giggle as we people watched. We would discuss our made-up version of the life of the Gypsy couple that passed us on the sidewalk.
I fell in love with the idea of how you would wake me in the morning with a finger that gently brushed the stray hair from my eyes. The look that would be in your eyes when I open the mind to the light of day, and the awe I would have for you would grow greater each passing day.
I fell hard for the boy who would need me like lovers in novels need each other. I would be his every happiness and I would be able to light up his world just by being who I am.
We would be unstoppable.
The authenticity of our lives became not the spontaneous goofy moments, but instead it was the mundane trips to the grocery or the pharmacy that were better because he was there with me to share in the best and worst of it.
The beauty of our mornings wasn’t found in unrealistic moments devoid of morning breath, but in meeting for breakfast and the quiet conversations that didn’t make sense to anyone else.
He needed me like air, but unlike air, I couldn’t cure his pain or calm his nightmares. It fell apart in the sting and stress of being someone’s only happiness. My love failed in the moments where I repeatedly wounded my own soul on the jagged edges of his.
How bleak and bare the road is when the darkness smothers the light of your love.
How inconsolable is the love struck heart when the reality is full of dark sadness instead of the mellow joy that it search for and had thought it had found.