Some rare things make me feel for tiny moments such as this, that love- the pure kind where it's bliss (and possible) to wake up to look and marvel at a face each morning- is possible for real. I like the thought and I like keeping skeptism away at such moments. Not because I'm hopeful but because at those times, I'm again a younger, more trusting, less cynical me. I belong yet again to a time when happiness was found full in tiny things, when nothing was desired, when pink evenings made me want to run out and soak in summer and birdsong through my skin, when wildflowers were arranged into bouquets, when life was simple, music was love, not meant to be stripped down to be memorized and replicated, when hands were pretty unadorned, hair wasn't fussed about. When writing was for me alone.
And so, when I'm that girl again, there's still beauty in the world, songs can have different annotations with discrete memories attached, behind layers of notes and words of love. There are, once again, so many different possibilities for the future, all a different primary color.
Above all, I miss my notions of love. And the belief that it existed and would stay mine forever.
What do I do with the weight of all that I have grown to lose?