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African American Couple

Falling for You, Again.

Said there'd be no going back
Promised myself I'd never be that sad
Maybe that's why you've come along
To show me, it's not always bad

Coz I can feel it, baby
I feel like I'm falling for you
But I'm scared to, let go
I'm scared coz my heart has been hurt so

It's true I've become a skeptic
How many couples really love
Just wish I had a crystal ball
To show me, if it's worth it all

                                                            “Falling For You” by Jem

My blood shot eyes were staring at me from the mirror. My gaze was sharp and focused, risking to reveal too much in its attempt to steal a glimpse of the mystery I have been contemplating in vain. Love. Pondering the loves I have loved and lost, as well as loves yet to come.

The feeling of déjà vu propelled me to the inescapable conclusion.
The pattern came together, first, as a vague sensation, and then - as a flash of insight.  I seem to keep falling in love with the same type of men over and over again - wild, passionate, wounded and broken. I love them fully, thrusting myself with abandon into the heat of the moment, getting drunk with our passion and giving of myself all I’ve got. I know that if they only loved me back, they would be healed, secretly hoping that through mending their brokenness I would mend mine, and through nursing their wounds my wounds would heal.

Ironically, time after time I find that my beloved seeks to reveal his wounds rather than heal them; show his brokenness for me to embrace rather than mend. They are reenacting their own script, hoping to dream up a cathartic ending, just like I reenact mine, nursing the same hope of wholeness.

And here we are, two comets whose orbits cross paths, and whose coming together is as inevitable as their drifting apart. I am so used to having the answers. It's a professional hazard, if you will. But this time all I have for myself are questions. Are we doomed to repeat our private theatre of love for as long as there is passion in our veins? Is our intimately guarded ideal of love attainable, or is it there only to mock our awkward attempts at it? Time, hopefully, will tell.