May makes today tolerable. Two years from now will get us through today. The future is our coping mechanism. We plan for the future. Tomorrow, two months, two years, two decades, hopefully more. We plan our future together. The roads we’ll walk down, the food we’ll eat, where we’ll kiss, how we’ll kiss, afternoons we’ll take of from jobs we still don’t have to spend the day in bed, high ceilings and hardwood floors and the industrial studio loft, places we’ll travel, our babies, how beautiful they’ll be, names, our move out of the city, our move to a better part of the city, the pets we’ll have, the pets we won’t have, the family goldfish, summer, summers, marriage, commitment, decorating the apartment we yet don’t have, constructing our impenetrable little bubble.
We plan our future because we’re terrified of the uncertainty tomorrow will bring. We’re terrified of how nothing in our power will bring us any guarantee, no matter who we are, no matter how many labels we wear, boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife, partners, lovers. We’re terrified that we’ll wake up tomorrow to find the right side of our bed empty, that our calls will go unanswered, that you’ll disappear from our lives with quickness and ease and we’ll have nothing left of you, only memories and a few songs. We plan because we’re terrified to tell you you’ll go, to not to go. We hope that you’ll plan your future with us, an unspoken binding contract, because no amount of dotted lines and declarations of love will guarantee tomorrow. And neither will talks of our future, but momentarily atleast, we’ll breathe better, our hearts will beat rhythmically, gracefully, steadily, just for now, if only for today. There is comfort in our future together, more so than all the planned futures we’ve let go and left behind, more so than the futures that never came to be. There is comfort in our future, because this time my heart says it will be better.
