And That Makes Me Mad.

“There never was a love like ours,” we used to say to each other. It was a whirlwind romance that ended as quickly as it began, and for him, was extinguished as painlessly as blowing out the short flame of a candle. But for me, the extinguishing still goes on as I try desperately to pour water on the embers of a love I thought would last for the rest of my life.

After it ended, I scoffed at the line we used to say to each other, remembering how important it had made us feel, as if we were in some sort of Shakespearean romance, you know, a good one, not one ending in mass death. It seemed so silly to think back on, to imagine in our deluded minds (or at least, in my deluded mind) that we had anything special, that our love was in any way distinct or better than any one that had ever come before us.

But I had to admit, at the time, it sure felt like it. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before, or anything I've experienced since.

Lately, I've come to realize that we were right. There never was a love like ours, and there never will be again. No two loves are the same. No one ever experiences the same thoughts, feelings, yearnings, sacrifices, dedication, attention, devotion that anyone else ever does. Every relationship is different, and you’ll never have the same love twice.

I’ll never feel that way again. It’ll be good again. It’ll be different. But it won’t be the same.

And that makes me mad.