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I remember love as it was when I was younger.

When my heart hadn’t known doubt because it had never been betrayed.

When it was the most automatic thing to assume that the love I felt for a man was equal to the love he felt for me, because we were together. And that assumption made me so confident, and I acted any way I wanted to and didn’t feel insecure about the other girls.

And I took his compliments as they came and believed all of them without reservation, and I thought, I was all that.

And I took it for granted that we had a future together, that our future was with each other.

There was no middle ground and we belonged to each other completely: I to him, because he was my first, and he to me, because I was his last.

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Reality caught up on me and for years I believed I was living in the wrong version of the universe, and everybody ended up with all the wrong people.

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And then doubt came.  And insecurity.  And jadedness.  And caution.

Many more things followed: envy, regret, blame. So many feelings became inadequate.

And finally love turned into work.

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And I emerged as the inexorable by-product. A woman.

But I remember love as it was.

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I don’t understand my heart sometimes.

I’m thinking of you, and for the first time I’m not in a hurry to be somewhere else or someone else and I wonder what it means.

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On the day I met you, I stayed awake for twenty-four hours, invigilating the earth, that it might yet bring forth another miracle and I did not want it to happen without me watching.

On the second day, I slept, and dreamed of you.

On the third day, a saxophone solo started playing in my head.

And when we spoke, I wept.

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Tomorrow is another day, and

I can’t wait.

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If I didn’t remember, I’d think there was something wrong with it.

But because I do remember, I’m starting to think that maybe this is how it should have always been.

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This may not last forever.

But I’m leaving these words behind today so that I can remember.

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