I never thought I'd make reference to vintage Whitney Houston, I can tell you that for sure.
And that's all I'm sure about, because I just don't know if words can be trusted. Yes, this is kind of funny, because I do love me some words, wordiness, wordiosity, wordilasticity...I've got like five more of those in my head right this minute, but you get the point.
He says he loves me. He says he still thinks I'm beautiful. He says I am still his Beloved.
But.
Should I take those answers, crumple them tightly to my heart, and hope for the best? Or should I wonder why, why, why I have to ask, break down and weep, get all forlorn and shit, before he actually says all that? Truly, I do not know.
And he's a lousy liar, but does that work for us, or against us? Does it mean that when he says these things, they are true and he simply doesn't say them often enough (or um...at all), or does it mean that he cannot say these untrue things until absolutely cornered by his sanguine and wild-haired wife? Again, I do not know.
We have so much that makes so much so much harder. It's tricky and scary and it's never fair. More than that, it's sad, because it hurts us, and it is either our weapon, or our fortress. Neither is much good if we're on the same side.
Ohhhh...how I want him to still love me! How I hope!
How I ponder and doubt!
Seriously, How do I know?
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