It occurred to me recently that all of my greatest loves, the long and the short, the tragic and the unfortunate, the little lion men and the pretenders, were all ended by them. I have ended relationships, yes, but only the ones so brief their existence seemed questionable. How was it possible that I, someone so very forward, so uncharacteristically honest, could never have been the instigator of the finality of a true love affair?
Tell me, what does this ink blot cause you to see?
Truly, the Big G must have a keen sense of humor to fashion into form a woman with an overwhelmingly enduring capacity to love, possibly even fatally so, and yet not aligned this woman's path with a man capable of keeping up with her. Life is comedy, tragically beautiful comedy.
Somehow she knew in spite of her romanrtic notions that it had to be him that she was capable of loving anyone with the passion bubbling inside of her. The love she found year after year was a reflection of her, his eyes mirrored the genuine affection she so freely gave and in rare chapters there existed the possibility that a strong counterpart possessed the passion fiery enough to rival hers. But always, ever imperceptibly, the rivals laid down their cards and walked dejectedly away from the table, casting sidelong glances over slumped shoulders. They marvel and they wonder and they're intrigued but their fearful doubts overshadow their desire.
I'm too scared to act, the moment's passed.
And so we change we grow we release we lose we are without that which we never fully possessed.
And secretly, blissfully, the existence of such knowledge that there are others who will fall as you have and with a surprising third act twist, they will linger, long enough to embrace that which was worth the risk.
They will hold on.
And fall.
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