I loved you so.
But, maybe, you were not good for me.
(Maybe will continue to be my word, because I am stubborn that way. I concede nothing. I have barely finished writing and I want to steal the “d” from the first sentence. But I shall leave it.)
Maybe we were diesel in a gasoline engine. Too much water in whiskey. A moth and a flame. All the destructive elements can come to bear, all the mixed metaphors, all the hurtful analogies.
They all fit. And yet they don’t.
No one really knows what goes on in a love affair, not even the two people in it. All are blind. Those who would love, they step off the precipice into air … and plunge.
No, maybe you were not good for me. Yet, had I been given the choice between aching memory or blissful nothingness, I would have drunk the hemlock anyway.
“Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror
Just keep going
No feeling is final”
― Rainer Maria Rilke