Will it be remembered for centuries? No. Is it glamorous and flashy and loud? No. Will it be the basis of some fairytale? Not in a million years.
This love is concise and this love is quiet. It’s always acted as though it could implode at any given moment – a bomb in a meadow where destruction can’t hurt anyone else. A love that swallows details to keep out of the limelight but also because the details are sweet. A love that sometimes aches when it should sing. A love that throws dirt in faces of the opposition, but only in a storm.
This love is uphill and singsong. It likes to rhyme, but usually the truth doesn’t. There’s rarely a day that our hearts actually smile at raindrops, but that’s what we wish for. It’s a love that’s never used a dictionary so that when the words are wrong, we can have each other to blame. A love that prefers a walk through a weedy ditch to a night out on the town. A love that once praised battle scars, but only to a point that I passed in September.
This love is dying and eternal. It’s the longest tin can telephone, the string tired and frayed across three states and a time zone. It’s letters under my bed that I could never part with. A love that was semi-functional at its best. A love that meant singing Born To Run at the top of our lungs in that Whataburger parking lot four winters ago. A love that charred and left no sparks as it burned down, leaving us melted into one.
So no, it’s not a love for the books. It’s hardly worth mentioning, but frankly, I have nothing else that matters as much.