Months later as I ponder over all that you were right about, and all that I was right about, too, I can’t help but wonder how two people that were so right could be so wrong.
After shamelessly dissecting each waking moment from the first time I saw you across that crowded restaurant to our series of wrestling matches and late night talks regarding our pasts and the future that awaited us, to the last time I bitterly, with tear-filled eyes, shook your hand goodbye, I’ve concluded that everything said was of the utmost truth (with a few exceptions, of course) and that your love for me was more genuine than most. So why is it that I am asking myself this question for the hundredth time as I sit on my balcony watching the sun rise to the tips of the dead, filemot colored hills after another sleepless night?
Maybe we were too right. Like two pieces of a puzzle that fit too tightly to be a match no matter how hard you try to squeeze them together. One always overpowering the other. And so back we’re thrown into the vast pile of pieces, perhaps finding each other again, but never truly fitting until we realize that maybe we weren’t so right after all.