Loving is not the sum of wishes brought to fruition.
No book can fully convey the nuances of longing,
or how wishing continues long after it has come true,
how the pain of seeing weeds and wounds can unravel dreams.
I dreamed of you
but all my imaginings
were leaves in the wind
and beholden to the elements and seasons.
Only living as long as they are connected to roots,
fed by dedicated cultivation,
and given room to grow.
I prepared for you
But no amount of study could ready me
for the reality of living with you.
each tired morning
each night of fighting
the pervasiveness of loneliness;
each perception check against my projections:
disappointments stacking like bricks in the wall
we never thought we’d build in the middle of love’s garden.
I am not what you wished for.
Could not, will never be.
And you are not what I hoped.
Wishes live not in this complicated world.
Hopes are only for those too conditioned to act
and too afraid to actually change.
But we are still, again and again choosing to be here
even as the coating wears off
and the cracks show.
We might have to dig up the foundation
to build a house that will last,
one careful moment of tenderness
at a time.
We might have to let go of what we think we want
to meet each other on the solid ground,
in the real world.
To plant seeds we will have to carefully tend through the season of darkness
that precedes each revelation
and thus, be delighted by the beauty of Spring,
as the saplings push through
the cracks in the thawing wall
wearing it away until it becomes a frame:
a foundation for the new life to come.