It’s still you.
Years later, my heart reminds me that I have a space collecting dust in its corner.
I didn’t move anything in.
And how could I when it’s only been you that fits there?
Sometimes I am afraid that I’ll never learn to love like this again, that my pen will never capture the way my heart beat at the sound of your feet up the stairs or the feel of your hand across my face to wipe the tears I felt safe releasing with you.
I am afraid that the feeling of a thousand butterflies all flapping their wings underneath my skin may not be duplicated. I’ve waited for the weight of loving you to be alleviated.
But it hasn’t.
It’s still you.
And I can’t say that I don’t want it to be.
I’ve imagined life beyond what we shared but I still find myself looking back even though I can’t go there.
I am not simply nostalgic. And no, I haven’t forgotten. Anything.
I am not remembering better than when the memories were created—it was complicated.
I’ve learned to accept it. To acknowledge my role and the way “we” had a hold on me.
It helped to have space. To walk in the Grace so freely offered even when I didn’t always get it right.
My sight is different now.
I see clearly. And I still see you.
And maybe, maybe we’ll never walk down the aisle. But, I’d like to think loving you and being loved by you was worthwhile.
Every smile that seemed to contain the sun’s rays. Every perfect contortion of a snuggle on lazy days. Every hug that assured me of security. Every clasped hand that spoke of surety. In us. In me.
Rolls frame by frame on the screen of my mind, I remind myself that it is not live TV.
That the only thing happening in the present is my pen gifting my page with words dedicated to you.
I hope you read this.
That you hear it in my voice.
That you hear all the things I still want to say but have no choice to keep to myself.
I still love you.
That’s a constant despite the variables that keep us apart.
Sometimes love is a la carte.
Sometimes you love without possessing and that alone is a lesson.
Love from a distance is still love. Even when it’s ninety-nine point eight miles away.
I hope it travels.