She is working her way through some love sorrow, searching for personal redefinition, some hopeful shedding of the uncertainties of living.
We chatted briefly in abbreviations, the emotional shorthand that friendship permits. Sentences typed with earnestness to break the heart of the writer first, then the reader. I loved her and have much affection for her now, though I did not know what to do with either mine or hers when I had it. Or rather, when we had it. The romance was predicated on a forced dynamic, it was of an age. Perhaps they all are. We survived our attempts, though not at first.
Somehow, with love, failure is a refusal to change and success is the refusal to be changed. Or, that is at least a part of it. It has been the most noticed part of mine.
The enduring ability to love is nothing if not ruthlessly stubborn. We call it forgiveness and understanding. Words that when examined point towards the other, a mild rebuke and imputation. Needed virtues advertised humbly as decoction to the failing of others.
So much, such as it is.
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