One was broken. The other, reckless. One was greedy. The other, naive. It started with a touch. Every love story begins the same way: a moment of recognition. Eyes meet. The soul knows, there, the mislaid key from lifetimes before. And everything changes, though you won’t understand how much until later.
I was lonely before you.
What works in your fingers? What stuck in your voice? What is it in your skin that sets my whole being on fire? Whose song do you have on your lips?
After comes the middle. Where poets and certain songs live. Where the ordinary earth becomes ethereal. Thoughts and bodies fly. Freedom in the space between heartbeats. Lightness. Warmth.
Sometimes that warmth lasts a lifetime. Sometimes you get a tiny repeat glimpse, a gesture, a turn of phrase and you’re falling all over again.
Sometimes, years later, you’re grateful it ended. Because the wound through which the light pours would never have come to be otherwise.
But here’s what nobody tells you about the after.
The breath never quite settles. You remain lost to the world. They’ve found another way to get to heaven. But here you are, still playing their song. Still looking at bridges, birds and trees. Waiting for someone to see how special you are for seeing those birds, for naming them.
You walk streets where no one knows the version of you that they did. You name the birds to empty air.
And if there is no end to love, then this is what it costs, the ache that won’t close. The wound that never scars over
No comments:
Post a Comment