10.3

some nights I lay in bed and wonder 
whether the love we dream about and write about and hope for even actually exists. 
deeply intense and celestial 
magic and terrifying
soul-crushing soulmates
we romanticize it and we write it. but do we find it? 
It seems the only place I find it is in the confines of our words, the connection over mutual pain and experience
and the overwhelming relief that somebody actually gets me. 
Because no one has ever captured me exactly like you. 
it convinces me that kind of love does exist - in a different way.
i didn’t know i could feel the things you made me feel. 
and i didn’t believe you when you said i’d get through it.
but of course you were right, because you knew me. 
you always knew me, much better than i knew myself
i'm sure you still do