Length turns into depth in relationships. After a certain point, be it two years, or five, or ten you stop considering the length of time you've been with someone as some great mark of achievement, instead focusing on the connection that has blossomed or remains, or both. The amount of shit you've bore through and the fact that in the morning, when even the Sun sleeps in and your head aches and your back aches and your soul aches you roll your ass out of bed and you dress yourself and you don't think anymore about why you go to that fucking job. You know. You think "I do this for us. I have to keep going." There are no other options, and somewhere, under the fog of exhaustion and the slow crushing defeat that rolls in with the tide of age, you're glad for it. You've done terrible things to each other and you never talk about them anymore and you always think about them but you are glad for it. You are glad that you have survived those elementary crimes against your heart and that they still love you after your elementary crimes to their heart, and you get up every morning and you work miserably and you come home lifeless and beaten and lay on the couch again, again, again, but they're there with you. They sit near you. They suffer with you and they celebrate with you and they die slow with you. There comes a point when you compare scars and dashed dreams and sagged skin and the dulling of eyes and you sometimes hold hands still. And you wouldn't have gotten this far with anyone else and you wouldn't have loved anyone else like this, and no one could have loved you like this and you carry a weight on your chest that could be failure, but it's probably love. You lay on the couch again, again, again. You wake and die and lay on the couch again, again, again. You compare scars. Love.
