but are not mine

Sometimes the hurt and love of it all is too much. It infuses my heart to bursting, the ache nearly unbearable. 

I meet my high school best friend for lunch. I haven't seen her for two years, but when I see her profile as she drives into the restaurant parking lot, I am immediately transported back to a time when she was my closest confidante, my very best friend before I knew enough of what the world could do to you to fully appreciate it for the depth, the sincerity, the loyalty. I joke that our friendship set me up with unrealistic expectations for the rest of my life, but I am not really joking. I love her still, though our paths have meandered apart, and nurse the pain of what feels like another loss.

I watch my brother change the break pads on my car and I am so filled with love as he explains to me the way the fluid compresses, and how the break pad should look, and fit against the metal plate. I could sit with him in the driveway and listen to him explain car mechanics until my bones grew down through the cement, and that would be the most worthy act I could dedicate my time to.

If I am so filled with love, why does it hurt so much? Why does it feel so lonesome? Like I am peering into vignettes of love that I am so happy to witness, but are not mine.