Talking for hours on the phone and losing track of time. Polishing off one each others sentences. Submitting to the figure four lock without any mercy being given because you're beyond smitten and fully incapable of denying this presence of emotion. It's consuming.

Takes work and patience. Compromising but that compromise can become detrimental to your own growth if goes awry. Poison and the right medicine. Delicate and built Ford tough. It's not made of forever. Lasts a season or more. It kicks around in your chest, head, and everyday by reminders. You only have to make peace once it's gone. The snare of a drum pummeling away. Seeking the endless knocking of sounds.

A cheap shot. A lucky shot. A shot off a fade away, missed the last time in the gym. Senses tingle. The mellow. Laid to rest for all to see. It's when you have an idea that eternity only lasts a couple of years, ten months, four days, hours here and there. Closed off by the final minutes and the very minute seconds you were looking at woefully. It has an end. Masked with desires for continuation. Revivals post up at night while head sinks into the pillow. Gravity of loss so heavy, falling into a bin deep enough, fails of tries to escape. No escape is possible once it is over. Once you no longer have the privilege by law or permission by the other part of a whole, to call her yours.

She never was yours. She's his now. The combo of a dice rolled making another heartbeat through the exchange. It's love, sure. Also called one other thing. A life come at half circle. The other half is tagging in the next source where love sprouts. The continuance of one man to woman, then to their heir of a questionable world, has a place to remind you. Truth is, no one ever expects the end. They only ever except forever. Nothing more. We're not made to except the clauses unwritten. The factors unseen or the pink and yellow post-it notes spotted when shit is chucked at the fan.

Never to prepare for the worst. Any fallout that trails after is his or her fault. His or his or hers or hers and everyone claims it to be everyone else's part except your own. You know what was done. Why it had to be and how hard it can be stepping away. The walk of shame towards a road of failure and you had enough shares to life more than a few lifetimes. Carrying your mother's failed attempts was thought to be easy, knowing what not to do. Becoming and adult quickest route possible said it was going to be a piece of cake. It isn't. It won't be. Not for the next and definitely never for the last.

Truest to words passed along to one another, there is a love shared. For the foundation of breeding another human being. It's there because you were granted a gift. A better chance at understanding what a variation of love is. What it would become when made in the image of you and her. He goes back a generation. Resembling blood of relatives seen in images and you find that this set of stipulations of love is different. It makes much sense than the variant you thought would be enough to save it all, including the heartache from the past.

Learning promptly, each day, each time spent, that there was much more to deal. To earn it back, possibly in spades. This was the rise from failure people spoke of. In this context it mattered to look back on all of what it was meant to be never what you expected it to become. Changes danced enough through the rougher parts and you want to post up a newer way to send a message. To apologize as much as possible for thinking you could play house without its repercussions. Without submitting to the work involved as backgrounds different as night and day was too much to hold for two.

You were smitten by the idea of advancing from the shackles left by instability and mirrored habits of strangers you should have known better about. One man's experience was not your own only left behind to learn from but it wasn't suitable for the other part of a dead equation. It passed the mold you created and more was required. Less times of strife invading the bubble of safety could not lessen expiring and this was unsolvable. Leaving was best. Stepping back long enough to say, this ain't right. It never was going to be right and you'll live with the outcome of it.

There was nothing but a single choice to do so. Not for you. Not for her. Only for him. As small as a child was. What he did or didn't understand, by ways of where your new evolved punch of love was, will be enough to get through the next place. A phase lasting long until the time of death. To wish it was yours before anything and anyone else felt understated but it was the truth. Nothing remains pure. Not in your head or what you bring forth to the table. There's a tainted wish guiding for perfection. A perfect bounty of what love is and how it is supposed to be but you know what it can be.

How it will develop over time and for whom. For yourself. For the people who were impactful of your life, for your seed, for the guardians that saved you from despair, and for the parent that departed too soon. It was all going to be included to share with someone new. Someday. Some moment that thinking so much about it wouldn't fall short of expectations because they weren't there strongly before. Sheltering for mercy and absolution you were on your own now. About the circumstances that remained.

Order could be in store for a next time and when it does reveal itself in ways that catch on like a hook, you'll know. Living with what was and now what has become shapes a perspective to be respected. You happen to think furiously on where things went in the direction of its worst but it never was the worst that can happen, always what the worst to grow from.