Dum Spiro, Spero

I Was 22

I fell in love on a mid-summer day, driving on the empty highway. It was just a glance, and I saw the sunshine on your face in a new and beautiful way. I did not say anything; after all, I was only 22. A 22-year-old would not know about love, right? I should have known it would ruin me. Wait, ruin? No, that is not the right word; it would repair me, repair my cold and broken heart, and make it beautiful again. 

I was 24 when I knew I would never not love you. Of course, I was dying to see what you would think—would you love me the same? I was 27 when I finally told you. Actually, you told me first that you always seemed to beat me in every race. We were 34 when we finally got married. I never saw myself getting married, but I married you. I have loved you all my life.

I was 22 when I realized I was still on the highway, glancing at you in the passenger seat, begging you to look back. I fell in love with your eyes and how they looked at mine. I fell in love with your smile and how it keeps me alive. 

I fell in love with your voice when you would tell me the simplest things. I was 22 when I realized how foolish I was to love a man who never loved or knew how to love himself. I can't love you; I kept telling myself that, repeating it like a mantra, like it was my lifeline. 

I kept telling myself how ridiculous it was to love you—the boy who lived in pain, the boy who only knew how to hurt. I was 22 when I broke my own heart before you got the chance to. I was 22 when I woke up from the best dream I never had.