They say, young people do not understand love. They do no comprehend the rigors and the trials love brings. But never have I seen teenage summer romancers blossoming into bitter divorcees, battling each New Year’s Eve with projectile glassware.
Instead, they hold a perpetual romanticism about these forgotten loves, the ones that weren’t real or serious or hard. No deep resentment hides within them, only the residue of a humid hope that died in August. Never hate, though– never loathing. Of course, I am young and do no understand love. Perhaps sleeping in different beds is part of what all that adult-known mystery entails.