It is not often that we find people in our lives who speak our language, and when we do, there is little else to do but to wrap our common ground in the soft tissue of the heart and guard it wisely.
This is a journey of love.
Lovers come and go. Sometimes they stay a while, a lifetime perhaps, a week, a year, long enough to find your smile in the freshly laundered sheets of summer.
With every passing breath, in every hand-picked romance, doubt moves silently through the mist of plain sight. It starts as an excuse, first to the self, then others, then to love.
The sacrificial journey is selfish.
Many I have loved, falling freely through the vacuum of delirium into the arms of the kind, the compassionate, the gentle souls who’ve sailed across my shores and shaped my heart. When we think about it, goodbyes are easy.
The storms outside rage, gales flow through open shutters, the curtains beat their sullen drums and homes come crashing down. When all is said and done doubt moves swiftly, sweeping the dust, straightening the clock, tidying the porch, laying the table for the next unnerving stranger to rattle the gates of love.
But to the ones I love, the ones I really love, it matters not how far we are, how deep the nights, how silent the never-ending footfall of stars in the spaces between.
And so I have learned the lesson of unconditional love.
We are the ones we love. We carry them in our muscles, in our bones. They flow through our veins, startle our hearts and carry on, tumbling gently through the lemon-emerald fields of summer.
We have lived in this endless ebb and flow since time began, always changing with the tides, recreating ourselves to allow life to settle. Rarely have I imagined that we could be apart, rarer still that we could be together.
We exist. That is enough.