January 14, 2016

I never thought I could be capable of feeling Love. The romantic kind of Love.

Because of course I love my parents and siblings and friends. Of course I love my favorite foods and particular sounds and sights and things in my life. Of course I know I can love, but Love?

The one where your heart skips a beat and causes butterflies in your stomach? The one where you hold your breath at every touch, get lost in every conversation, the one where you see it in the movies and think that it can't be real, people do not act like that; people cannot feel like that. That Love? The one where being apart, becoming apart, being away from gives you that tugging – nagging – feeling in your chest. The kind of Love that, through my whole life, I thought I could never know, only because I had been living with it my entire life?

Have I always been in love?

I can't be, I couldn't be. No. I tell myself it is not possible and yet every time I tell someone that I've never felt even an inkling it always feels like a lie. And even thinking, I'm not in love with him…, my heart drops.

Because I'm a sensible person, because I am practical. Love is an illusion of hormones and the mind and yet my breath hitches every time he wraps his arms around me, every time we are alone together, every time he lets me lay my head on his chest or he places his head on my shoulder.

And it's not that I want to go beyond that. Just skin touching, laying together. Maybe an innocent kiss but nothing more. Never beyond cuddling, our breaths mingling, hands touching, and our hearts in rhythm. I want to take long car rides and park at the top of the hill overlooking the city skyline, out in the country staring at the stars. I want to just lay in a dark room and talk about all places we see our futures going. It's so simple and yet so difficult, miles away, we grew apart.

But every time… God! Every time! We see each other, always, I know we will; it's a guarantee. And every time I feel something in me flutter, fly, soar. We fall back into old ways and lie on the floor with my head on his chest. I'm his confidant and tells me about the people he meets and the people he likes.

He likes people who are not me, and here I am possibly in love with him and it hurts. But he smiles and then there is that tugging in my chest and I'm getting dizzy because when he laughs my head bobs up and down, and the heater turns on and we switch positions so that our backs are against the wall and his head is resting on my shoulder. I like that. I like how we are now.

I know that isn't a lie. I never want us to change.

And I think that's what hurts the most: knowing that we will change, we have to change. We aren't kids anymore.

The houses we played in no longer exist, demolitions and landfill offerings. The places we used to go, not a face we can recognize or a voice that we know. We used to sleep in the same bed and now every time we do he places a pillow between our bodies, he offers to sleep on the couch…he would rather sleep on the floor. There was a game we would play and only the two of us knew of and now he laughs at it like an embarrassing childhood memory while I, in all my sentiments, remember it with nostalgia.

But despite that, we haven't changes all that much. He is still him and I am still me. We're just older. And maybe I just haven't quite come to terms with that yet.

Yes… I just haven't come to terms with it yet… To my rational mind, that makes the most sense. I can't be in love with him…

. . .

New Year's goal, write a weekly introspective journal... let's see how long this last...