The longest moments of my life are the ones waiting on him to be here with me after a tiff. I know he is waiting too. If we both keep waiting the cows will come home, or hell will freeze over, kind of like my heart feels now, but then I laugh. I know how much he loves me. It’s a pickaxe through the layers. I get up to go out to the work shed, but turn to find him here.
How can complete ruin be rebuilt in seconds? Is it fickle, feeble, dramatic? Hurting and healing is real. It is easy to offer a truce if we feel supported, when we have invested in one another. When we don’t, we suffer unable to supply the demand. Until again- we give first. It’s pleasing to give first, always. No matter how much we want to take, like trusitng anyway when nothing feels stable, or remaining tender, and making these moments that matter most, count. We choose one another when it hurts, when it is undeserving, when there is no justice.
Desires upon desires, willful, demanding, self-serving to a struggle and fault. We all can through tantrums, vent, prove points, play games, feel justified. It feels good I know. It feels better to practice more deliberate action, like the ones that make us truly happy. Loving him makes me happy. Being a loving person makes me happy. I choose to love him first, before resolve, before performance, before expectations.
I don’t want moments passing without showing him he is loved. I don’t choose a heart of stone. He is worth more to me than my complaints, worth more than my ignorance. We pull the same strings, push the same buttons and make up new ones, defend and offend with the same strategies and defenses. But no, I will not trade him in for these kinds of helpless sufferings.
Loving one another equally makes all the difference in happiness, no matter the quick sands of cycles and beliefs. If I ask something of him, I need to give something. I will understand him. He is here. Giving to me. I look over, he’s opened the bedroom door, peaking his head around the wall, raising a playful gaze offering peace. He’s all smiles, and I deliver a run of flirtatious pouts, just until I get a sufficient number of kisses, and when the moments again, are lavish and translucent, and caring.