One day they will read about us, while we are cloistered away somewhere or perhaps no longer in each others arms. They will not read about us per se, they will not know that the love stories that are coming through the radio or causing pages to turn in books from the drug store are about us, how could they. They will go travelling to waterfalls in the middle of nowhere, never once realizing that it is our footsteps they are following, or in our rivers they are swimming. They will hear about us, see us, although they will not know it. Through movie screens and in their dreams they will understand exactly what we had even if we don’t. And maybe one day, when we ‘ve ruined it all, squandered it through selfish acts and panic attacks and unfulfilled promises, we will read about us. We will yell at the pages and turn the radio loud, seeing all the things we couldn’t when they were right in front of us. And maybe next time we won’t close the pages, or fixate on the rough edges or the nights where we didn’t know where we were going. They will hear about us, the ones that threw it all away. And instead of being proud we will shirk that distinction, even if we are the only ones who realize it. We will haphazardly come together again, but then I don’t think they would read about us anymore, becoming far too ordinary to be the things of love stories.