Someone I loved once gave me a box of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.

Mary Oliver, The Uses of Sorrow

Am I in love? — yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn’t wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover’s fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.

Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments