Love letter # 261
Surely we are old enough to know there is no perfection. Young romantics might sneer, suggesting we have surrendered and they may well be right; but we both know that not every box is going to be ticked. In a way, our love is a kind of graceful (and grateful) acceptance. We have each other and that is a whole lot better than nothing.
So, you and I have a choice. We can let the inbuilt grit rub away the sheen and dream of more polish or we can live with little scratches. Perhaps this is well short of what either of us truly wants but we have reached something; we have created a fragile bubble of us and woken content inside it.
I am not sure that this will ever be anything other than what it is – and the idea that somehow ‘it’ must lead to something more seems silly to me now. Why, when we already have a beautiful sweetness?
Or maybe it’s that you believe we don’t.
Either way, I am old enough now to be utterly confused, to admit I may be totally wrong. Maybe even this, which is me trying to keep us together, is making things worse. I will not pretend. I will not promise what I know I cannot honestly give – but I will say that it was much better when we agreed, when we just kissed and made it up on the run.