The memories play back in my head like a cheesy movie montage...
were those moments even real?
I am still overdramatic about the whole thing, it seems,
but there is no lie to the truth that it all happened.
Last summer my head was caught in a misty haze,
I had no idea what was to come.
My mantra was to go with the flow and see where it took me,
and boy, did I not know where my destination was.
A romance ensued that bloomed like a flower,
ever so quickly but gracefully all at once.
I speak so eloquently about it because that's just how it felt:
beautiful and unlike anything I've ever witnessed before.
I remember the Florida sunsets,
the late-night messaging and FaceTimes,
the endless car rides and Starbucks cups,
and my heart literally feeling it was going to combust from the amount of happiness I was enduring.
It was short lived,
but it was good.
It was more than I've ever felt, ever.
He said that, too, once upon a time,
and what a time that was.
Now here we are,
one year later.
We've both grown so much in a seemingly small amount of time,
still courted in friendship.
I'm beyond grateful, of course, for that,
of where it's led me,
of what it's taught me,
of what it's showed me I'm capable of.
But what is a love story anyway?
Signs seem to tell me all the time that maybe it wasn't all that it was cracked up to be,
maybe it wasn't all that painful as I described it to be,
maybe I was being my overdramatic self at the end of it all.
But that's just me, I guess.
Never knowing what heartache was, or maybe not even knowing what it is still.
But I know I did hurt,
because that is the only time I've ever felt love like that.
Now here I am,
writing poems and singing songs,
venting to journals and people,
about the feelings and reflections I face over and over again.
It's still going,
it might for a while,
but I know it's only leading me somewhere great
despite the loneliness and the void I can't seem to fill.
I keep on believing, that my time will come again someday,
And what a time will that be.