Mi corazon

I love you. It’s a new, exhilarating still-in-the-getting-to-really-know-each-other phase kind of love, but it is nonetheless. I’ve never really believed it can be said “too early,” because love should and does evolve as we grow and change. (I can tolerate the argument that a different word might be used, but I’ve never found one sufficient.)

But I don’t think you can love me fully. It is very much not you, it is entirely me. I know what you want (all very reasonable things!) and all the ways I fall short. I very much think (hope?) you love me in the capacity we exist for each other now; but even though it may seem like everything now (at least it does to me), it’s not. It can’t be. Unfortunately (for me), I think you realize that now, too.

I have lived the last few years chasing happiness wherever I can find it, even when I suspect (or know) it’s not permanent. I always worried we had an end date; I think at first it seemed a countdown, that one day we’d hit zero and that would be that. I now suspect it’s an expiration date, one we’ll pass without even realizing it. I will start to leave an increasingly sour taste in your mouth, and you’ll seek out something sweet to chase it away.

Truly, I will celebrate for you when that day comes. You are wonderful, and you deserve it. I will be bitter and jealous, but I will do my best to swallow it. Instead, I will revel in the memory of us, of you, and the deliciousness you brought to my life.

Because I love you, dear heart. Immaturely yet deeply. I’m just sorry I can’t tell you.