Grist for the Mill

So many hours are left to still be awake. Before unconsciousness momentarily quells this unexpected ache.

Such a carelessly comfortable thing it was to fall into. And an all too effortless venture in which to partake. Yet some words and actions carry deeper meanings, with commensurately steeper emotional stakes.

It’s understood that romantic endeavors never come entirely without peril or fraught. An inherency when trust is given or taken, and intentions with weight and substance are proffered and bought.

It was just whispers and hours ago that I was the man of her dreams, and all the things she claimed her soul had so eagerly sought. How devastating it is that yesterday she told me she loved me, but now there’s another. And so today she does not.

No malice will be harbored. And for gifts in the form of such glorious memories, I could never hold ill will. For better or worse, we love in the ways we were shown or experienced, like any imperfect though less impactful practice or skill.

It would be sanctimonious of me to feel otherwise, as I was once the prescriber of this same bitter pill—one that left the recipient nauseous, and me years of guilt to restlessly till.

I’m hopeful that every lesson learned from love might grant all involved expanded capacity for it, if not more poignant grist for the mill.