I try to draw a connection between the feelings of love and drowning, and all I recall is a whisper of a memory. My body still remembers fragmented pieces of pain, echoes from a love that hurt for its entire duration. Three years later, I realize what I felt was not worthy to be called love. My emotions were one sided and poisonous, wasted on a boy who couldn’t bother to show me affection in return.
Three years ago my words were quick and desperate and reading them made you need to linger on the periods to come up for air. Sometimes I want that impact again, to move you the way a building shudders in a hurricane, but I’ll punch you twice for flinching before you’ve even seen the rain because a part of me wants you as far from those feelings as possible. Three years ago, I thought I could make someone love me out of sheer force of will, but I didn’t even understand the word until I met you.
Now, I know.
To love and be loved: an entirely different ballgame.
It is lighter than air, thinking of you. Loving you. It is staring into the flames, shoulder to shoulder, feeling luckier than hell to be exactly where we are. It is a cool and colorful fall day with just enough sunshine. And one day it hits me: we are the sunshine.
The sun is trapped in my heart and it makes me hot and cold and deliriously happy in a single breath. It feels sacred and fragile and unable to be confined within my ribcage, and I must try not to blind people when I smile. I wonder how I could’ve mistaken this feeling for drowning, how I could’ve misinterpreted the ugliness of before for the magic of now.
I had never been so wrong. And now has never felt so right.