And sometimes I wonder if it's that dark, gloomy, melancholy side of me that knows the end is approaching and savours the briefest of moments, the sense of immediacy, the glimpses of throttled life, that surround them. How bizarre is that? I used to stay awake at night and wonder what it would be like to be with someone for the rest of eternity; would I get sick of him? How, exactly, do people do it? What about the chase, the excitement, the rush? What about the unpredictability? The limitlessness of it all scared me.
I don't know about sick, but I'm downright delirious about you, around you. I used to worry that I'd never know love, that the only kind of love I knew would be that kind of love for sinking cities - fleeting, uncommitted, strings-free, and paradoxically, safe. So safe. Now I know that the love that washes over me, that completely overwhelms me to the point that poems churn from the butterflies I feel every time you step through the door, is different than the kind I have for sinking cities. It's different because I never want it to end.