You and I face each other, forming parentheses from our question mark bodies. The space between us open. I feel like when you breath out I can breath you in. When I exhale you inhale, and together we keep each other breathing. The things we do not say fill the space in our parentheses. Our bodies are the question marks at the end of sentences we do not utter.
"Are you the one?"
"Will you love me?"
"Can I trust you?"
Our curved lines straighten out. Knees lining up, elbows tucked in. Slowly feet entwine and arms reach around. Two parallel lines, coming together and crossing. Like vines we hold each other tightly until we cannot see our edges. We flatten and twist our parentheses until it is closed and those questions are gone.
We may not hear the answers, but then, our question mark bodies stopped asking.
I wrote you love letters. I spelled them out with desire. I left them across your hands, your chest, your lips. I scattered them like secrets; tattooed them with my promise.
But somehow, my letters faded. The ink I used rose up and swallowed me. I stood at the bottom of a whirlpool, my love letters surrounding me. I drowned in my own interpretation of our romance.
I stood naked and alone as our possibility crumbled around me, dripping in the ink of my love letters. I wiped my kisses off my arms and legs. I wrung my tears out of my hair. I cleared my eyes of my enchantment, blinking out the ink I had written it with.
And once I was removed of you, I found I was stronger. I was deeper. And I held all of that ink, ready to write for someone new.
But even now, as I cry myself to sleep yet another time, do I regret you? No. Because I see. I see how lovely we were and could have been. And how can anyone resent something which brought so much happiness?
We will grow, and learn. All from almost having one another.
I think I might have said it, had you said it first. And for that, I will be grateful. For that, I will value what we shared. The next time I open my heart to someone I will look for you. I will seek what I almost shared with you.
And because of that I will Love. And it will be real, and whole. And I cannot blame you; but thank you. For how do you resent the one who taught you what is to be beautiful?
You do not. You merely accept. You move on. You say “Goodnight”.
I have to relearn now. Before, I didn’t even know what I was missing. Now I do and I have to relearn how to be OK without it.
How did I fall asleep without you?
How did I drive without your hand on my knee?
How did I feel beautiful without your lingering gaze, and reverent kiss?
Before, I thought I knew how Broken felt. I knew the sting of Betrayal, but not how Broken feels. Broken feels heavy. Betrayal was sharp and angry. Broken has acceptance. Broken recognizes that this was inevitable. Broken is heartbreakingly, achingly, sad. Sad. Heavy, and cold, and sad.
I didn’t know before. Now I do. And I have to learn to be OK with it.
I just saw our picture. But tonight it didn’t hurt to look at it. Tonight I saw how handsome you were and how close we stood. Sentimental. This is becoming normal. Where before there were sharp, jagged edges, time has worn your memory down smooth. The parts which barbed and snagged at my heart slip quietly through my memory…
As long as I can remember, my grandma has carried a worry stone. It is a rock, rounded and shiny from being held and rubbed in a pocket. You use it to soothe yourself when you are anxious or worried. She let me take it on my first flight. I held tight to it, believing in her guardian angels and trusting God to see me safely through.
Your memory is smooth like that worry stone. Noticeable. Heavy sometimes. But not sharp. Sometimes I even forget. I am getting over you. I will carry you with me; tucked into a pocket of memory. But you will not weigh me down. You were my first flight.