“These bones are fading.”

M,

Forever and ever and all that, but these bones are fading. I am older
than I have ever been. Middle life is creeping in, for me and not for you. I am
already on medications I would not have imagined a decade before; I have had my
heart checked and my weight nodded at and my blood pressure frowned at. I am
not even forty, but the bones are telling me their brittle tale. Some of it is lifestyle,
some of it is genes and some of it is just growing old.

I know this is not sounding romantic, but I intend it to be. My fatalistic
worldview is challenged by our deep and ongoing love story. The bone and marrow
I intend to suck out of life all exists in your eyes and in your arms. Everything
comes down to facing life together and pushing that eternity away for the exclusive
sense of loving you on earth. It does not just make life bearable; it makes it
enjoyable, full, desirable, and beautiful all at once.

I know it often does not feel this way. We are fed that love is
incredible stories. Love is just lying in bed. Love is just drinking tea. Love is
trying to express love quietly, so the baby does not wake up. Love is working
on budgets and going to the market to break them. Love is arguing, veins
bulging and being afraid that you have gone too far. Love is forgetting that
the bones are going because, in these moments, only eternity is on my mind.