You made me believe.
You made me believe. In a lifelong love that could not be broken. Would not be broken. No matter what.
You made me believe. In love lost and love revisited. That the one that got away sometimes comes back. And thought that I was the one that got away.
You made me believe in the power of words. In your self-assuredness. That you knew what you wanted and would not stop until you got it.
And you. You made me believe in a beautiful stranger. One who I almost hung up on the first time we talked on the phone. One who was patient and understanding when I questioned your words because of the one who came before you and misused them. You understood my heart. You made me believe in Big Love…or at least the beginnings of one.
You tested my trust.
You cut and run because you couldn’t be ‘that guy’.
You went hot and cold and made me question myself instead of you.
And you. You were all in. Until you were all out. Immediately after telling me you loved me. And so suddenly, my head spun for months.
You were the golden boy. The one who would never do this to me. The one I was told I was so lucky to have. Until I finally realized you had been the lucky one all along and that I had to let go of 25 years in order to save my soul.
You were the one who always made me wonder. The one who told me I cut you loose, when I was sure I would never have made such a tragic mistake. The one who made me break my rules. Right up until you broke my heart.
You were the self-proclaimed ‘throwaway guy’ who spoke my language in a way I never knew before. Until you stopped using those words and spoke of your head battling your heart instead. Until you stopped talking altogether.
And you. God. You talked about our shared love for the same books and meditation and spiritual philosophies and our children and our journeys and love of music. And you crafted an epic first date and cooked for me and sang to me. And then you were gone. Insisting that you were not…that this was not the end. Except that it was.
You never looked at me the way a husband should look at his wife…or at least the way I wanted my husband to look at me. You liked that I was yours because it was the image you had of a successful man. But I’m not sure it was actually me that you wanted…you just wanted someone to complete that image.
You made me feel like we were meant to be. Because of the incredible way we met and when and how we came back together, again and again. There was always a pull…but timing wasn’t on our side. Or was it more than that? Star-crossed lovers and nothing more, perhaps.
You were a blip. An eye-opener. A wrecking ball. But oh, the power of your words made it feel like so much more.
And you. You looked at me like you couldn’t believe I was real. You would just stare at me. You made me feel more adored than all the men before you, combined. You wrote me amazing messages and poems. And called constantly because you hated not talking to me for even an hour. But that’s because you created your own image of me. Expectations that I could never live up to. No matter how many times I insisted I was flawed and real and human. You had your own ideas. And they were not me.
You made me believe.
All of you.
Each of you, in your own way.
One with devotion — but it was only for show. You were decidedly undevoted for 25 years.
One with nostalgia — but our timing was off again and again. And we just weren’t meant to be.
One with conviction — but your lasting impact only made me learn to question everyone else who came in so passionately and with over-the-top words.
And one with your whole heart — but while your hand was over your heart every time we spoke, and in mine as we meditated in bed together, you thanked me for giving your heart back to you and then walked away in the most cowardly way possible.
You made me believe.
Each one of you.
And now I’m scared to believe again.
To believe in a soul connection.
In the way someone looks at me.
In the words that are used.
To believe in love.
Because you made me believe.
And I’m scared that I can’t do it again.