That moment. The little indecision, the fearless declaration, the long wait, the crashing, the rising.
I have read poetry that makes me wish it was written for me. Heard words that woo and swish me off my feet. I have felt eyes as they quickly duck another way. Heard endless gushed stories that seem like I belong in them.
When you know and deny, when you perceive and pretend, when you understand and ignore.
It is the catastrophe of almost touching, the devastation of roughly feeling, the trauma of nearly believing.
There is that.
And then, sometimes, unexpectedly, there may be intensity, and comfort, and calm, and dependability, and assurance, and passion. Sometimes, tragedies give way to an everyday romance.