A Happy Ending

I go through my writing, and there is absolutely nothing about you.
This might seem like not such a big deal to you, except that so many other people have a place on a page whom I’ve known for less, or never fallen in love with. I’ve thought about writing you out, but the ideas are not strong enough to force me to sit down and live through them.

In order to see you, to explore you, to write you, I need to explore why I cannot see you.

You are simple. The story is simple. You’ve been kind, you’ve been forthright, and I can’t even feel mixed about you being too kind or too forthright. You are exactly what I need. I desire nothing more of you than who you’ve been when you’ve been yourself.

There was no pain or uncertainty or longing or anything else to give the love a flavor of something other than safe and nurturing. This is new, alien even. I can’t draw from any archetypes of my past or personal mythology to give you greater power over me, or relate to you in such a way to limit it. They all have one darker element or another mixed in… I can’t yet find yours. You’ve just recently worked your way into my dreams at all. How can you be so important to me, but not dominate my dreams when you are in them? I suppose it’s because previous figures of my dream mythology were either dark or uncertain. If he was an apotheosized, I could not look him in their eyes. If I needed to seek him out, he was incarnated as a dark figure who did not offer me peace when I find him, perhaps only partially material. You are no symbol of something I desire and fear. I do desire you but not fear, and you are here.

Good love stories to tell others have misunderstanding, longing, fear pain. I can’t look at you and feel any shade of that. Anything I find is just a reflection of my own uncertainty, my own small hold-out to the belief that by loving you fully, I risk breaking through the patches on my heart, which hopefully will someday cease to be patches at all.

And that hold out of fear quivers when I speak to this: That to write about you seems like continuing a story beyond its end. This is the happily ever after. Conflict resolved… done. I know this cannot fully be the case until I’m dead. There will have to be yet another end and you will be yet another painful lesson learned, or this story will someday have conflict, and is thus a story yet to begin. There is always conflict. There is only sometimes a happy resolution.

Until then, you are my happy ending.