An odd shaped love
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‘The right person at the wrong time is still the wrong person.’
A friend tweeted that yesterday and I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ve turned that sentence over in my head, analyzing it from all angles. You don’t need ostentatious words to describe a sentiment shared by many. A simple sentence like that hit home immediately.
I always thought you were the right person. On hindsight, it was never completely the right time. I was too focused on myself and your emotions made me want to run far away from commitment, sometimes. As much as we tried, and believe me we did, we weren’t meant to fit together and it’s no one’s fault. Our hinges didn’t gel, our pieces didn’t fall into place the way songs and sonnets describe of a perfect love, but it was okay. The wrong person does not have to be the wrong type of love; just a different one. I’m only beginning to realise that it’s normal and even advisable to love and lose, to hate and hold. Youth has a way of cushioning many of the blows to the heart.
You will save me, I will save you, of wonderwalls and the like. Idealistic talk has no place in realism, I used to say. But even the most staunch cynic has a softer, more romantic side that underlies all the sarcasm. It’s no one’s fault if you can’t see past the words she uses to heal her broken heart.
You were probably just the wrong person.
