They are not the same mistakes. Most are brand new. Every day – a different set of hopes. Every day – a different way of dashing. A medley of missteps you endure time and again, like Sisyphus with his rock.
(Though it is your heart that you hold out in front of you, and it is love that is your labour).
You have long known this to be your fatal flaw. An enduring optimism that brings about a thousand little deaths. A thousand nights that begin with opened palms – and end with a dying in the light. This is why you have always liked the tomorrows more.
(All those dreams 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 quiet vigil for your resurrection.
Because there is always a resurrection, always 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. It has never really mattered the kind of weather.
It’s all just proof that you have survived. These little deaths that give way to new life. When you hold out your hand, when you say –
“I’m still here”.
Your words adding another crack, another flaw in the composition of your love.
The mosaic made of your mistakes. Seen clearly from a distance. And so terribly beautiful up close.