Loving someone is both sacred and vile.

Vile because it, the thing we cannot name, becomes something that binds us in light and darkness; surely will grow or change while it creeps into some dark, rusty, abandoned place, through circumstance, non-believing, or some other form of organic drizzling.

Like a remnant memory from one of our sweetest days, a distant memory that is filled with sadness because it had to end.

The sadness is not like an ordinary sadness it is a sweet sadness because without it at the ending we would have never known the sweetness of the thing or feeling in the first place.

A sadness that is like a period, something that demarcates an ending but also signals a new beginning, that kind of sadness.