There are so many moving parts to the relationships we build. (It honestly feels like fishing out splinters when I think of the time we spent circling each other. We failed each other so fantastically. If I’m honest with myself about the entire timeline of what built me to be the person that met you, loved you, hurt you, forgave you, hated you, left you…) Anyway, it’s hard to admit I’m also to blame. It’s easier to justify still grieving when you’re the left one, the hurt one, fair and square. But those are not words I would use to describe what people make when they make love.
If we are life experiencing itself, the love we make is the spark that continues it, perpetuates it, very literally breeds it and comforts it.
The love we made was life.