But what good is love, anyway? Seems its always coming or going, a wave crashing on the shore, forming sparkling puddles; puddles that last only until the next swell rises and sweeps them away—puddles lost at sea, lost in me. You can only sit on a bench with someone for so long before you realize that you’ve got a train to catch, a plane to catch, a cold to catch, someplace to be other than that green bench; because anything is better than the tsunami, or worse, the drought, that will become your relationship if you let it go too far.
Slightly cynical, I know. I'm not that cryptic, truly, I'm not. But it's been a rough week, and I so I keep convincing myself that alone time is just what I need.