bittersweet // adj.

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You and her lived in a world I could only be an observer in.
You both spoke a language I couldn’t understand.
So when we walked through the door, and she was the first person I saw– my head spun so quickly that the next thing I knew, you were rubbing the center of my back while I handed my insurance and registration information to a nice old man with a small new dent in his black car.
You held my hand, and I held my breath all the way home.

I finally told you I was having one of those crummy days where I woke up having to fight for it,
where my mind told me things that weren’t true just because they’d been true before.
That was when you told me you’d been in love with me since fifth grade and I needed to snap out of it.

I had never known a man who could be so gentle with my heart, a man who knew exactly what I needed and could be that for me.

So you took me to the top of a hill where I could look straight out and see the skyline of my city;
we climbed out of your car and sprawled out on a stranger’s front yard to watch the night sky,
and I knew I didn’t have to fight the shrinking feeling any more.


It was you and me and the woods who heard your whisper:

“I think we can do this.”

My bones broke beneath the words with a sigh and a crack, outraged that you had let me believe for so long that you hadn’t loved me anymore.


God is working on this bitter heart, making it sweeter with every healed memory.

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