Tuesday, September 20, 2005

That's Us.

We're them. We're everything we like about them and not anything we don't.

We're the quirky and kind, the handsome and pretty, the sarcastic comment and embarrassed giggle.

I found myself doing this constantly. Finding couples I loved and thinking "we're them." In a million ways. His personalized commentary; her sigh of his name. Her empassioned torrents; his patient and supportive hand on her knee. I would listen to songs and think - "us." I would horde them in fact, in playlist after playlist. Listening to them repeatedly. "Us." "He and I." "We."

It was like I needed comfirmation that this was real. That it wouldn't go away, that it wasn't made up. Because it was exactly what I would make up, if I could. It was all too perfect in a way. Maybe not perfect - but real. Too tangible. Solid. Beautiful in that way imperfect things are. In the way worn wood on a banister feels like coming home. I was searching for evidence that this was what I thought it was. What it could be. What I hoped for it to be.

And then I realized the evidence wasn't coming. Because it *was* real. Because it was he and I, and no one else. And we are, yes, a million lyrics of a million songs. And slight reflections of those we love most, cracked mirrored images of what I would find in books and papers. But we're so much more. He is so much more.

And I realized, we're writing those songs, we're creating those images. And I no longer need confirmation it's real, or permanent. Because I know it. I know it in a way I've never known anything in my life. And in itself that is scary and wonderful and amazing.

But I still listen to those songs on repeat, I still glance twice at those couples. I guess it's my way of runing my hand over the bannister, feeling that nostalgic overwhelming reminisce again and again.

I'm home. I'm home. I'm home.

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