I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.
Unlike Mr Darcy, I can think of the hour, the spot, the look and the words. Perhaps too much. Perhaps I remembered them so often, it’s not even how it happened. But in my mind, the first rush, the first tentative, unexpected but so desperately awaited moments are still vivid.
I don’t know you but I want you all the more for that.
Two strangers, a chance encounter. How many stories start like this? And cliché as it may be, I welcomed it, cherished it, knowing it was all doomed from the start. It was all innocent, remote, platonic. Until it wasn’t.
When I’m broken down and hungry for your love with no way to feed it
Where are you tonight, child you know how much I need it
Too young to hold on and too old to just break free and run
When I get jealous, depressed, angry, or just to keep going on, I placate myself with the idea that maybe, just maybe, he wants it as much as I do. Maybe, just maybe, it is really the world against us, we are victims of circumstance, of mismatched time lines…
I know it never can be for I was born too late for you to care how my heart cries because your heart just couldn’t wait. Why was I born too late?
Hopeless or not… I’m not ready to move on.