Perspective

I spend hours watching the lines of her fingers trace the doubts I keep inside. I’m in this moment. And this moment is sort of forever, the kind of forever you fear won’t last forever. You know, this one in her room, on her bed, in her eyes. Maybe this is supposed to be special. Or maybe this is just how it’s supposed to be.

Sometimes I lie to myself. Even she says that it’s impossible for one person to hold all the answers. That we find different parts of ourselves in each and every person we meet. She says this like it’s a truth, but then why do her arms hold me as though I’m the only one that matters? Maybe she’s lying to herself.

Earlier today, she took one step outside and came right back in. The world is different today, she had said. Everything was unfamiliar and strange. She rushed to bed, believing that if she went back to sleep, she would wake up to a world she knew. I envied her. Reality was simply a matter of how she woke up to it. How convenient.

Her eyes open and she’s awake. I think she smiles at me, but it’s hard to be sure when in every other moment, she becomes someone different in my eyes. Someone I knew. Someone I have yet to know.

Love is supposed to be permanent, but the faces and the names are always changing and new. Strange and unfamiliar. Maybe, love is never meant to be found, but rather it’s hoping that when she looks at me, her world is one she knows — safe, loving, and sound.