Stumbling upon a semi-realized idea:
Today, something of a frustrated delight sprinkled on my tongue and lingered there for more than a realistic minute should've allowed it to. But it did, and I tasted something new. I can't say it was bitter, but it wasn't sweet. Salty, maybe – but that's because I just had some Cheetos a couple minutes before. Sour isn't the right word because I sensed no acidity between us; we're better than that lemony swirl I'd always get at the restaurants. I guess maybe I tasted a hint of undying love, the type that old mystics would tell me of, holding their spouse's hand all the while – the type that doesn't dwindle on the glee of emotions or the maximum of the spectrum, but rather the soft cushion of life. What I mean to say is that I finally tasted the grainy flavor that Time puts a signature brew on in an undying love's glass of anniversary wine.
Do you remember when we'd smile as wide as the moon each time we saw each other? Or maybe the times when our inner-philosophers would speak with passion about Love and Life to each other? Can you replay the nights where we'd always, and I mean always put an adorable "Subject:" in our letters? you and only you; this is what love is; write me a feeling; :] ; for my dearest; I miss you; I need you; I love you.
I think my favorite is the greeting hug; and I have to say, the hardest to bear was the departure hug.
I know it's a juvenile thought to linger about, but I still can't imagine my life without you. I feel like those naïve kids with twenty-five cent ice cream cones melting in their hands when I sit down on my sofa and wish that I could be the only one to make you happy – anyhow, somehow, everyhow, is-there-a-how? Ounces of selfishness will tend to leak into my habits when I want to keep you this badly and I know that you can see it as clear as our moonlit smiles. I admit it; something of me wants to hold you closer than what you allow me to. And I'll admit this as well: something of me cringes when I can't see the fervor in your words as well. I feel my stomach start to tighten when I see "[No Subject]" and I'm trying to shy away from that now. Some days, I realize that a hug isn't in total check and perhaps we've already implied the hug – but I still sometimes lack the feeling of your skin after you've closed the door behind me. I feel silly, most of all.
Today, something told me that undying love is the fact that everything you do is done with the heart and to go forward and reach for her – reach for their hands, their bodies, their lips – is the hope that they'll finally understand how far love can go. We needn't be constantly reminded that we're loved (though we are) – no one wants such lovely things to be hackneyed into oblivion. Sometimes a smile is the best thing you can give; sometimes a hug; sometimes a kiss; sometimes even a glance. I still need to realize it, but maybe our letters have finally sunk into our hearts so much that we rarely need to put those silly subjects: we're so far in love that, telepathically, we're writing our own stories and letters to each other every minute of the day. Pretty words never really did convey our affection for each other the way we want it to.
Today, I tasted something – most of all, I tasted something lovely.