The word time is almost as recurrent as the word love, if not more. These two words together form the impression of either pain or infinite joy.
If it needs time, the occurrence of a period of nothing in between two points of maybe a little less than something, it’s because it will probably not happen. Love doesn’t ask for breaks or waiting, it bumps in, rushing, that’s what makes it surprisingly scary, an unexpectedly bittersweet, swiftly moving elixir we wash the insides of our mouth with. It heals us, but never without a slight burn, a stinging numbness marking the exact moment in which you’ve let go of yourself to allow her to come in.
Those pauses in the sensation of love, the stupid conscience that overpowers your need for a conversation, little talks that fill you, creating your wholeness. They mean everything and yet, you find the strength to avoid them. Well, she doesn’t care, does not fancy them, perhaps only sometimes, but your mind surrounds her fleeting, ready to flee presence, always and in ways that stagnate your sprightliness. But that’s fine, it doesn’t matter for as long as I know how she stings me and ignores how her lost resounding words cure me.
Because we may choose to live in a beautiful denial, an estranging lie we soak our minds with. And so we wait, hoping and surely longing. It’s the habit of a lover, to ignore whatever opposes his true feelings and improbable believes. For in life we are not happy by having what we want, but instead through avoiding the damaging parts and moments and truths and obviously clear silences of her, the ones we promptly abhor.
You may not hold her, not now or never did, whatever the case may be. But yes, you loved and love her still, forever, for true love, that one which touches your body in places you didn’t even know existed, this kind of love doesn’t happen everyday. Some never experience it, others struggle with it, but only a few truly comprehend the inspirational power of a love this impenetrable, an undying feeling only you, alone, perceive, fully.
In the end, the one and simple words of advice I must say on this, on love and time, is that there is no better time to love than loving on time and with all the time you possess.
Stop thinking that the love you gave has gone to waste, it did not, never does. That loving initiative you acted on, it is unique, exclusive of yourself as the only one who can see her for who she is, and I must admit that sensation, a feeling of containing her with myself, from a distance, it has been so alluring to me, crazily warming to my esprit. After all, the memories of what you once offered of you, they’ll fix you by feeding you life later on.