Keats used to whisper to me between the pages, the man knew what love was. Love fell on wings of butterflies, it hid underneath veils, and rings and falling apart into a wonderful snowfall. As usual, the man was right; the man was a genius after all. I once believed that love was only that, that it was found as a breath between a shared kiss, or on a hot summer night; tossing and turning while refusing to leave their arms.
It can be that, that is true.
What Keats doesn't seem to write about, are the other soulmates you still seem to find in every lifetime. The ones that accompany you on your journey to love. The ones that carry you home and hold you in weakening arms as you break. He didn't talk about the boys I will love until my heart gives way, but will never marry. He didn't tell me that the love shared between women and the eternal bond that exists between us is something so ethereal. I hope that he loved his friends as much as I do mine, knowing existing without them would be falling into glass shards. The people I have grown to love, in such a permanent way have become the lives of my life. I definitely have more than one, and I fall for all of them everyday.
I know as the world caved in, in another life that I promised them I'd find them.
I promised that I would hold their hands as we descended into darkness.
I love them, I love them.
