Where do the stories fit? There is a vast space waiting to be filled - in this blankness that yearns for words of adventure and audacity and blinding joy, yet still here I find, a blinking fine line.

I had sought after the love I thought we sowed and ought to reap, for far too long. And maybe I’ve lost grip of my senses; looking over dried land, watering what has withered beyond reprieve, exchanging truths for alternative facts, dancing along rhythmically until we, too, are deceived.

This truth, this particular truth - where you and I are nothing more than familiar, similar, comfortable spaces; waiting to be filled, designed to cater to two very lonely people. 

That is all you are to me.

And I’m not even that, to you.

But for whatever reason, we are still here - digging our hands deeper into pockets, reaching for pennies of affection to pay for what might just be the smallest exchange of love or at least, what it sought to be. Clawing upwards on walls we’ve built cemented ten heaps high, watching each other lose breath as we climb and fumble over, only again, to rebuild.

Waiting for the first sign of retreat, waiting as we always have, waiting on each other, as we always will. 

 

Where does our story fit?

I do not know of love that is not of you.