Confined to the Walls in Letters of Renaissance

Whenever I meet with the pictures, photographs, times, dates, the myriads of love found, the sources from which I feel a continual loss of sight. Loss of place and capability.
I think:
Is that really what I want?
Is it possible for me to truly find it? Achieve it?
All the surface happiness I see, I try to remind myself of the qualities I do not see. But even that reminder seems a touch false, maybe even cold. Part of the romance of love is a bit of the struggle. A lifetime together should prove to reveal all of the colors.
Maybe not well shaped in every place, but always worthwhile.
Before the modern chasm, we used to have to rely more on one another. Am I wrong?
A postcard slipped from the wall and I watched it hurriedly rush and flutter a few times before it landed on the wood floor. I hadn’t noticed how quiet it had been, maybe the entire time while I was waiting. I watched it in the silence and in the light of the room a while before I reached down and retrieved it from where it rested. I looked closer at the happy couple on its surface, then tacked it up, back in its place.
Will it ever change?
Will it ever change?
I can’t say.