To be clearer, love can be quite a lot of things, and the truth is that only after you’ve been through most of its nuances, and resisted them, can you admit you’ve been truly touched by it.
Love won’t respect you otherwise anyway.
The truer it is, the more discomfort it might demand of you – and one abides. It’s in this understanding that promises should actually be made and meant, contrarily to what we mostly see, do and choose to say in our recurring lives.
See, our love’s been about keeping up with a reality of no newness, no vibrant emotion shared nor even wondered about, most times; and, in standby, we stand ready to one day engage fullier – or just louder and livelier – ’cause engagement, there is much of it already, though of the discreetest kind.
Besides, there’s quite a peculiarly specific yet natural inquietude to me that my body does however not show when posed with this reality of our passion. My body recognizes value in this wait for you, a certainty I may admit to see growing sturdier everyday.
Thus, I have answers as easily as I might question myself about them, over and over: that there’s no change because that isn’t what my self desires. And oneself should know what he wants, I assume, and for that reason I trust him; I trust myself.
You know how much I want to leave so much of my life behind because I see no worth to a severe extension of it – things and people I was meant to perhaps love… I’m told – but never the idea of us.
And this patience we’ve settled around innately tells me much of what I need to know. And the more I know, the less I shall ask for in reassurance; silence is even our currency now.
I simply trust we know all we’re moving towards and we understand that not much else is left to question anymore. It’s been drabber the closer we get there, and that’s how I was taught that love can also be absolutely dull.