43
Love, a concept so large human hands cannot quite grasp it.
Four letters that are said too much and not enough
between a broken boy and lost girl whose future would not be fate at only sixteen.
After school days filled with Chipotle bowls and Circle K slushies
we held so much hope that we were in the twenty-five percentile.
That they would call us the lucky ones.
Foolish of us to think this universe had any intent of happily ever after.
As humans we are blessed with the skill of adaptation.
That might be the most heartbreaking part.
One day you will look at me with those green eyes that held a tint of gold
and no longer feel at home.
I am afraid we will adapt.
But with adaptation comes peace
the sense that all good things must come to an end.
People come into our life to help us grow when they go.
I have grown from you.
I am ready to see what I will accomplish.
I know you will still silently celebrate
even from a distance,
even in the arms of another.
Twenty-five Percent
Michelle Hare