Tag: poetry

I fell in love when I was sixteen. It wasn’t the fleeting, teenage romance as depicted in novels and biopics, but the love of two souls who found contentment with each other; the deep, forever kind of love.

He was a hardworking farmboy- blonde hair, blue eyes, dimples, and enduring kindness. He was strong and steady but a worrier at the same time; somehow spontaneous but organized. A walking contradiction of sorts, if you will.

He made me feel as though the stars in his sky shone only for me. The first time we watched a movie together, he cried when he was leaving because he didn’t want to go. Our connection was instantaneous and it swept us away.

We spent all the minutes together that we possibly could. We talked, laughed, and cried together. We felt we could only be our true selves when we were together, and still to this day, I maintain that there’s nobody who knows me better even though many years have passed.

We grew up together but sooner than we wanted, the growing led to hurdles that turned into us growing apart. Distance played a part in this; I went to university and he stayed home to work. The difference in trajectories was our downfall.

Tenacious and stubborn as we were, we kept being drawn back together as if we couldn’t help ourselves. We didn’t know how to be apart. Though technically not together, we talked every day and spent time together every chance we had.

We shared our exciting news with each other first. We held each other and cried thinking of the other loving someone else. It wasn’t that we didn’t love each other or that we weren’t together, we just weren’t in love with each other anymore.

We didn’t date. We didn’t put the effort in. We just expected it to be how it always was. We relied on magic and circumstances. We pretended as long as we could. The spark wasn’t there. The care was, the passion was, the butterflies weren’t.

We finally dated other people. We asked each other for opinions and advice the entire time and the day we were single, we got together again. It was as if we were magnets.

Every time we were together, we entered this bubble that made it seem as if time stood still. We were still sixteen or seventeen, life hadn’t gotten in the way, and we were still invincible. We knew how the other would react, we knew what would get a reaction, we knew how to make each other laugh.

Deeper than that, we knew what the other needed to hear, we knew how to comfort and how to hold each other, we knew when to lighten the mood, and when to get the sparks flying. We calmed that piece inside of us that was unsettled everytime we were apart.

That bubble had a reverent kind of stillness in it, as if we could be two puzzle pieces that when coming together, shut out the rest of the world. With each other, we were no longer cynical young adults, we weren’t broke, we weren’t hurting, we weren’t worried. Together we could feel safe, loved, free, and relaxed.

Even after we no longer spent time together, receiving a text from him would bring a sense that all was right in the world. Every time a text was answered with what I knew he would say and with what he knew I needed to hear, that bubble surrounded my heart. I could hear the same thing from someone ten times over, or from ten different people, and it still wouldn’t resonate the same as it did when he said it.

Now that we’re living two very different stories after having promised each other forever, I can’t help but miss the timeless feeling I had when we were together. That feeling alone is enough to make me miss him, but do I miss him? Do I miss the bubble? Or do I miss the him that was in our bubble?

We aren’t the same people anymore and that has been one of the hardest truths to realize. We didn’t get to grow into the people we are today together. We don’t know each other anymore, and that phrase will never get any easier to say.

He’s married now and I’ve switched careers. I’m outspoken now in a way I never used to be. I’ve travelled across the country, and he’s travelled across the world. I drive the same car but I don’t wear his ring anymore. Some things remain unchanged, and some things will never be how they were.

We were never perfect, no matter how we might have thought we were. Rose-coloured glasses do exist and through them is how I see much of our tumultuous relationship. We didn’t have it all figured out and we weren’t as invincible as love had led us to believe.

He knows me in that immortal bubble, from 16-year-old me to 21-year-old me. I know that 16-year-old him loved the colour red and that 18-year-old him had a scar on his back from where his brother threw fencing pliers at him and that 21-year-old him worried about the debt he went into to buy farm machinery.

The challenge was getting to know me and getting to be content outside of that bubble, knowing I couldn’t step back inside to put all the pieces of me together again. I needed to find new glue and to find other things that soothe those pieces of my soul.

I’m blonde now, and my favourite colour is no longer blue. I don’t wear the same kind of deodorant and I’ve moved away from my sheltered and naive life. I’ve lost myself and found myself again.

The timing wasn’t right, we were too young, or the fates had other futures planned for us. Whichever reason you’d like to use is probably true. Now, I doubt we’d even find that same contentment if we were together. If we sat down to have a real conversation, I doubt we’d come away with that same sense of timelessness.

That bubble still exits somewhere, and in it, my stars still shine for him. I do believe that we still love each other, even if it is a different kind of love than the one we needed to be together. It’s more of a fondness for what we had together and an eternal wish that the other is happy and that their family stays healthy. We don’t know each other anymore, but now we don’t need to.

Hope this finds you well,

-L