Lost love is the hardest kind of love. When you're walking down the street, it's 10 o'clock on a Saturday night, and you're in a city where you know they most definitely aren't. But you see someone walking just in front of you, and they look just like that person. Or how you imagine that person would look, if you could see them now. And you know beyond reasonable doubt that it isn't them. It can't be. The chances are one in a billion. Yet you find yourself hoping anyway. Your eyes watch over this person like they're a surprise you simply cannot bear to miss. Your heart is racing with hopeless promise. You instinctively find your pace starts to quicken. You know it isn't them. It isn't possible. But you want to, have to be sure, all the same. That is lost love.
It's the realisation that as time has gone by, you think you've overcome it all and moved on, but every now and then moments occur, and you realise that all you've been doing is burying the memories, the feelings, everything, as far away from you as you possibly can. They haven't disappeared. You've just put them in a place that's a lot harder to reach these days. It's waking up for a morning run, and wondering absent mindedly what they're doing at this moment in time, wherever they may be. It's listening to music that you know will take you right back to where it all began, because it's comforting sometimes. Because it feels like shining a light into the darkness that stretches out between you. That is lost love.
It's counting the months and years that go by, and realising that time is slowly and effortlessly pulling you further and further apart, and guiding you in increasingly different directions. And you're powerless as to how to stop it. It's looking at yourself in the mirror one day, and realising how much you've changed from the person they once knew. Realising that you yourself are a marker of the years gone by. Evidence that time is the currency that continually cashes itself in. And wondering what they would think of you, if they could see you now? What would you think of them, if you could see them now? Would things be the same? Would things be different? Would you still look into their eyes and feel like home? That is lost love.
It's that dull, persistent, aching feeling that you're both the unfortunate sufferers of a wrong that should have been righted, a cruel twist of fate that needs untwisting. It's the what ifs, the what could have been's, if things had been different, if you had been different, if they had been different. It's knowing that everything you do, everything you are now, is because of them. They are your maker. They are the place where it all began. They are the point in time that you can never transcend. They are intertwined within you, whether you like it or not. It's knowing that they are the secret you can never tell. When too much time has passed, and people assume you've long since forgotten, and they don't really want to know any more, so you keep it quiet, discrete, tucked away safe in the hallowed walls of your heart. You're bound to this secrecy. To admit you still miss them, after all these years, is a ludicrous concept to those who have never known the feeling. That is lost love.
It's the not knowing if you'll ever see them again. If it will be tomorrow, this year, next year, this decade, or many, many years from now. Or maybe never again, for as long as you live. It's the not knowing if you should put your life on pause just a little bit longer, to tempt fate into changing its mind. Before you go down the wrong road. Leave the door open just in case they decide to come back. Or if you should just move on, carry on, accept it's all over. Accept the defeat like you know the gracious should. It's the first person to come along after they've long since been gone, and allowing yourself to rediscover the joys of beginnings and possibility and hope. The wonder that you even can feel again, when you thought you never would. And telling yourself that this is why everything had to fall apart, because it's the only reason you can find. That you're yet to find. To justify what happened. It's comparing the new and the old, and knowing deep down that it isn't the same. And the curiosity that, if they were to miraculously be standing on the corner of the next road you turn down, would you drop everything, let it smash and scatter into a million pieces, so that you could be back by their side once again? That is lost love.
It's the day when you realise you're never going to find the answers you're looking for, and knowing that this is the moment when you have to let it go. Accept that what will be will be. You can't carry on living your life with a mind so resolutely fastened to the past. It's the frustration of relying on memories that have been replayed so many times over, that it's impossible to tell what's real, what's imaginary, what's fabrication, what's truth, what's reality. The not knowing any more, the wondering if this is all just a lie, a truth that's no longer real, even though in the quietest, most secretive depth of your heart, you've always known the answer which seems to elude you. It's imagining the words that you would say, if you had one more chance to see them again. It's wondering how you'd hold them, how you'd bridge the gap, how you'd right all the wrongs and make it all better. It's wondering if you're too late. If it's even possible for anything to happen now, or has the chance long since passed you by? That is lost love.
It's the way your heart aches when you remember certain little moments where opaqueness transformed into the clearest transparency, and the smallest of actions said all the words that a voice never could. It's the pain you feel, when you realise that they don't remember it like you do. When you realise that they want to be free. When you make all the wrong moves. When you begin to wonder if it was all in your head. It's the tears that you cry, when the one feeble connection you have breaks, and you lose them so completely, just like that. And the world suddenly seems too big and intimidating and infinite. And all that's left is nothing. You could reach out your hand into the depths of the universe and still never find them. It's the cautious apprehension that tip toes through your veins, when the connection is restored, and the glorious happiness mixed with vehement protection of your vulnerability, lest it be burned with painful fire once again. That is lost love.
It's knowing they'll always be the reason why. It's the still believing in that special, once in a lifetime magic, even though you want to doubt it, because part of you knows that it was true. That this person was one of those people. It's when you're walking at half past 10, on a Saturday night, suddenly filled to the brim with that familiar cloying sadness you know only too well, and wondering when this will be all be over. Wondering how it still has the capacity to puncture and bruise and wound even now. Wondering when you'll just stop caring. Wondering when your time will be up, because this as you know it, is currently defying all the odds and prognoses and promises that you were assured were going to happen. Feeling this way wasn't part of the plan. And you can't help but wonder if wherever they may be, right here, right now, are they missing you too, even though it makes no logical sense. That is lost love.
It's dreaming of shared futures that can never be, because the necessary infrastructure simply cannot be built any more. It's knowing that if you had your time again, you'd do a lot of things differently. It's knowing that you had to cross this passage of time like the weary sailor in her battered boat, in order to be the person you are now. In order to be the person who can do those things she never once could. And wondering if this is all part of some higher plan, agreed by the cosmic forces of the universe without your prior consent. It's the dreams and plans that will never see fruition. It's walking with a confidence you never used to have, and wishing you'd had that confidence when you needed it most. It's smiling when you remember the beautiful, magical perplexity, familiarity and youthfulness of it all. The way you laughed. The way you connected. The way you talked. The way you crossed boundaries with the ease of someone who is all to aware of the dangers ahead, but for this moment in time, has forgone the desire to care. That is lost love.
It's wishing for one more day to call your own. The chance to trade in all the days accumulated in solitude for just one filled generously with companionship. It's wondering if it was ever going to work out, or if this ending was the best thing that could have happened. Maybe it was never meant to be. Maybe you were high speed trains cross-sectioning across each other's lives at a very precise junction of a lifespan, and it was never meant to have any kind of permanency. It was always a transitory thing. Maybe you were birds passing through the skies of each other's lives, heading onto bigger and better things. Maybe you each formed the steps of the other's ascent. A springboard into the future. A whispering wind with which to guide. A ray of sunlight to brighten the horizon. Maybe you'll see each other one day. But it isn't today. Will it ever be today? That is lost love.
And finally, it's being able to take a deep breath when the water of emotion gets too high. and gather the feelings you know you shouldn't have unleashed, and pack them away into the distant depths of your heart to be forgotten about till another future moment of recognition, weakness, desperation, nostalgia. It's being strong enough to walk away and smile because it happened, instead of crying because it's all over. It's being able to wipe the tears away from your eyes and look to the future, in all it's promise and uncertainty, instead of rooting yourself in the plains of the past. It's being able to accept the bad times, and cherish the good. It's finding the trust to place in the strange workings of this world, because what will be will be, and you never know who you're going to meet or where you're going to go or what might be waiting around the corner. It's being mature, wise and gracious enough to accept that things don't always work out as you'd like them too. It's being able to learn from past mistakes to prevent history from repeating itself. It's taking the good and infusing it within you. It's retaining your capacity to love, and your ability to still view the world kindly and considerately.
It's remembering how lucky you are to have found something that made and makes saying goodbye so hard. It's hoping they're well and happy and content, wherever the may be now. It's looking at the sunshine and believing that tomorrow is always a better day. It's being able to pick yourself up, make yourself better, look on the bright side and carry on walking in the hopes that life will blow a blessing into the open palms of your waiting and weathered hands once again.
It's dreaming of shared futures that can never be, because the necessary infrastructure simply cannot be built any more. It's knowing that if you had your time again, you'd do a lot of things differently. It's knowing that you had to cross this passage of time like the weary sailor in her battered boat, in order to be the person you are now. In order to be the person who can do those things she never once could. And wondering if this is all part of some higher plan, agreed by the cosmic forces of the universe without your prior consent. It's the dreams and plans that will never see fruition. It's walking with a confidence you never used to have, and wishing you'd had that confidence when you needed it most. It's smiling when you remember the beautiful, magical perplexity, familiarity and youthfulness of it all. The way you laughed. The way you connected. The way you talked. The way you crossed boundaries with the ease of someone who is all to aware of the dangers ahead, but for this moment in time, has forgone the desire to care. That is lost love.
It's wishing for one more day to call your own. The chance to trade in all the days accumulated in solitude for just one filled generously with companionship. It's wondering if it was ever going to work out, or if this ending was the best thing that could have happened. Maybe it was never meant to be. Maybe you were high speed trains cross-sectioning across each other's lives at a very precise junction of a lifespan, and it was never meant to have any kind of permanency. It was always a transitory thing. Maybe you were birds passing through the skies of each other's lives, heading onto bigger and better things. Maybe you each formed the steps of the other's ascent. A springboard into the future. A whispering wind with which to guide. A ray of sunlight to brighten the horizon. Maybe you'll see each other one day. But it isn't today. Will it ever be today? That is lost love.
And finally, it's being able to take a deep breath when the water of emotion gets too high. and gather the feelings you know you shouldn't have unleashed, and pack them away into the distant depths of your heart to be forgotten about till another future moment of recognition, weakness, desperation, nostalgia. It's being strong enough to walk away and smile because it happened, instead of crying because it's all over. It's being able to wipe the tears away from your eyes and look to the future, in all it's promise and uncertainty, instead of rooting yourself in the plains of the past. It's being able to accept the bad times, and cherish the good. It's finding the trust to place in the strange workings of this world, because what will be will be, and you never know who you're going to meet or where you're going to go or what might be waiting around the corner. It's being mature, wise and gracious enough to accept that things don't always work out as you'd like them too. It's being able to learn from past mistakes to prevent history from repeating itself. It's taking the good and infusing it within you. It's retaining your capacity to love, and your ability to still view the world kindly and considerately.
It's remembering how lucky you are to have found something that made and makes saying goodbye so hard. It's hoping they're well and happy and content, wherever the may be now. It's looking at the sunshine and believing that tomorrow is always a better day. It's being able to pick yourself up, make yourself better, look on the bright side and carry on walking in the hopes that life will blow a blessing into the open palms of your waiting and weathered hands once again.
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