"If you don't know what it feeks like to have someone you love put a hand below your bottom rib for the first time, what chance is there for love?"
~The History Of Love
I would never know. Hmm?
In the adjacent bed, my roommate lies buried under a heap of blankets. Soft sobs are carried over the phone to the ears of the man she had been in love with for the past decade. I don't ask why.
I lie buried under my heap of blankets. Reading a book under the warm yellow light of a torch. And thinking of the man I had been in love for the past decade.
I don't sob. Two broken hearts in the claustrophic space of 10×10 feet would be too much.
She is loved by the man she had been in love with for the past decade. I am not loved by the man I have been in love with for the past decade. She sobs about not being able to see him. I don't sob that our lives casually intersect so often, yet I will never see him. If I see him, I will blend into the crowd, turn away, or lean hunched up against a wall. He will turn away too when he sees me. And would never hear my silent plea, "Look at me. Know me. Love me."
Seriously, what chance is there for love?
For love. None. For loss. All.