After years of sitting on the edge of the plateau, standing ankle deep in cold ocean water, craning up to look at the sun between tall green conifers, after years of losing umbrellas, twisting one's ankle and returning home bare-feet and limping, songless, writing in childlike diaries, saving leaves between their pages, till fossilized their thin veins and vein-lets showed, walking nonchalantly across aisles of gift shops on valentine's, of gazing amazed at kids holding hands, buying new dresses with noone to see, noone to say, getting a sad haircut, a happy haircut, after years of trying to purchase all possible substitutes of love, now I am in something, that feels so much like it.
It's not straight out of the books I read, poems I hugged, movies that remained in my head, it's not. It's not something I have waited for. And now it makes what I waited for feel slightly inane. Or, it's my bias, definitely.
But, this has an exclusivity of its own. It defines itself. In its own insane longing for life kinda way. In its own capricious unorthodox fashion. What can you do.
Ultimately, a brief while after everything seemed to have finished off, I seem to have just begun. Or allow me to to use a slightly more slack pronoun. We seem to have just begun.