Yes. Our kind.
We revel on endless discussions over the beauty love brings to our beings; the luxury of more than enough words to epitomize the feeling. Everything sweet sweet sweet.
It’s why people like you and me have since been hurting. We think we have it that we may be able to give to others in a breeze; we can’t be more wrong. The brokenness could be severe, or the wound way deep.
We get uncomfortable upon awareness of strands that might soon string us. Anything longer than two weeks? My my. And no, no conditions please.
The vision is worth it, isn’t it? But who gets to know? Not me. What do I know about life and love. I’ve had four decades to show how I’ve erred on such areas repeatedly.
We’ll always be here nonetheless. A lifetime is spread wide to describe something that’s constantly out of reach. Here in this cloistered sphere where we hide,
where we connect continents into the shape of a heart; where we dream up characters we can romance and lose and resurrect; where we write beautiful long dearest letters that are subconsciously meant for ourselves. Words instead of love… for the difference is sometimes imperceptible. It’s easier adopting the lingo of a yearning soul.
Interpretations can be addicting; It’s what we do to combat the emptiness of our ways,
against the mirror which keeps reflecting the man or woman who cannot teach or reteach themselves the true meaning of love.
Pretty unexpected of me to say this, yes. Somehow it’ll dawn it’s not quite surprising; we knew all along but wouldn’t risk making it apparent to others.
Maybe we’ve run into some possibility from time to time; a someone we can imagine watching rainbows with for the rest of our years. We then get excited; until corners of dissatisfactions begin pulling us aside once more. Deep in our hearts we already know: No imperfect stranger is really welcome. Not to a solitary place within that’s long been guarded. The mark is in the palm of our hands — nobody is ever good enough. We deem ourselves that impeccable.
And so on and on we keep going. On and on and on.
***
Bohemian Sentiments 