August 19, 2014

When I Fell In Love (It Would Be Forever).

love couple hug

So it happened.

I knew it would. I knew there would be that moment, we’d see each other, somewhere, sometime, and I would melt all over again.

I knew it. And I did.

My entire body softened with just one look from you.

Just one.

I wanted to tell you, although I didn’t, I think about you. Every day.

Not just once. Not just twice.


You’re there in my head, a little picture of you, clear as day right in front of me but just out of my reach. I see you. I miss you. My heart aches for you. I wonder what you’re doing. I wonder how you are. I think of something funny that I would tell you and you would laugh and say something witty back…probably the same thing at the same time that I said.

That happens often. We’d exchange in this easy comedic banter for awhile, returning grins, smiling at each other, even if sometimes from a distance.

I miss your voice. A lot.

There are moments, all day, every day, that I long to share with you. Things that I know you’d like. A song, a quote, a book. I see people I would want to introduce to you. I had never been so content to be with someone until you. Never.

But with you, my face shone like sunshine when I talked about you.

You made my eyes sparkle.

There are only a handful of things in the world that make that happen…you know that.

When we went places, I never worried, ever. We could be apart in the same room and still connected, each comfortable in our skin, never a moment of doubt in one another. Just trust in who we were, wherever we were and whoever we were with. That’s partly because of me, and partly because of you. Together, we were just. . . amazing.

We just worked.

I want that back.

Everything with us was easy. Things just fell into place so seamlessly. There was no trying, no effort, no pretense. Our inspiration was mutual. The synchronicity was remarkable.

Do you know how difficult that is to find? Really?

I run into people who knew us together. I cringe when they respond in surprise that we aren’t dating anymore. Their obvious confusion mirrors mine, still. I go places we went together and it’s not the same. I do things we did and they aren’t as fun. I go on dates with perfectly fine men, and none of them measure up, not even close.

They are not as funny as you. They are not as handsome as you. They are not as thoughtful, as smart, as amazing, as you. The bar has been set unreachably high now. If they aren’t a “you” then I’m moving on.

When will that stop?

I wonder how dating is going for you. Are you having fun? As much fun as we had? More? I want to want that for you, really I do.

You deserve to be happy, did you know that? You do.

Selfishly though, I wish, deep down, that you would just realize how great we had it, how hard that is to come by, that you really do want it. That you really are ready to be loved like that.

But you probably won’t, and you probably aren’t.

There are little pieces of you everywhere. Your chapstick in my nightstand you left there the first night you stayed over. That stupid straw in my purse from that lunch we had with the kids last fall. Your damn diet cherry 7-ups still in my fridge.

The card you gave me for my birthday. My pearls—the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever been given. I could throw most of it away, stop wearing the earrings and tuck them away until a time when it will hurt less to see them.

But I probably won’t.

I see places in my house differently. My headboard, when it knocks against the wall as I slide into bed, makes me want to hold it still, and then I remember those moments and I pause, and sigh. The kitchen, especially, draws goosebumps.

And the kitchen doorway. Oh. My. I stare at them longingly and wonder if I will ever, ever, ever, have it that good again.


I saw a picture of your kids at your kitchen table and I remembered sitting there with you over a glass of wine as you rubbed my legs and we talked about life. I walk through your house in my memory and just the images make me blush. Those white cupboards, that smooth countertop at just the right height, those undressed windows…

I never felt so free and at home as I did with you.

And your home. I wonder what it looks like now. I wonder how that desk looks and if you ever did find those silly palm tree sheets. I see a globe or a map and it reminds me of helping you pick out artwork for your walls, watching you settle into your new domain, your new self, your new identity.

I could have accepted then that you weren’t ready, you didn’t want what I wanted, not really. But I didn’t.

I can’t seem to find my feet anymore. They are in constant motion, never still, propelled by the vortex created in the vacuum of my chest.

Every day I feel it, empty, and I remember that I gave you my heart. I didn’t set out to, it wasn’t intentional or conscious; it just happened. I have never given anyone that gift before. Never.

How do I get it back?

I have this whole new perception of myself because of you. Our relationship was a game-changer for me. It showed me what I could have, what I deserved, who I was and what I was really bringing to the table. I knew it before, but I didn’t own until you. I saw myself in a whole new light, because of us.

Like a gift unwrapped, I finally saw the gem within and I accepted it, without question.

That confidence isn’t going away, I just can’t figure out what to do with it, yet.

What do I know? This still hurts. It’s really not better. My gut still says the same thing. Every day it feels stronger, not weaker. I keep trying to ignore it, to replace it, to push it away, and it keeps coming back to me instead.

It’s like a boomerang, made of stone, in the face. Is it like that for you? Recurring reinforcement.

Repeated ambiguity.

The universe is clearly trying to tell me something here. I’m listening, and watching, and ready. I’m open.

Show me please.


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Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: Luca Vanzella at Flickr 

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