“What counts is not the best living but the most living.” – Camus
They are not the same mistakes. Most are brand new. Each time – a different set of hopes. Each time – a different way of dashing. A mosaic of mistakes as you endure time and again like Sisyphus with his rock (though it is your heart that you hold out in front of you, and your love that labours).
You have long known this to be your fatal flaw. An enduring optimism that will bring about a thousand little deaths in its time. Like the night that begins with open palms and ends with a dying in the light – when this was tomorrow you liked it more (as the dream you slept over so easily the night before).
Your heart is always in your hand when he slays you, this man. With his distance and his betrayals, with his dismissals and his reserve. He slays you in a thousand careless ways every day. And then waits in his own vigil for your resurrection.
Because there is always a resurrection, a return when the dust has cleared. Something elemental compels it – the blue of the sky or rooftop rain, or the silver of sunlight on water. All reminders that you have survived, and it is a giant shot to the heart when it hits. This little death that gives way to a renaissance when you hold out your hand, when you say “I’m still here”.
As another crack of glass is added to the composition of your love. Seen clearly from a distance, but oh so beautiful up close.