So much of our relationship is reunions and goodbyes.
There is a luxury of pleasure to be found in that, the bittersweetness
Of missing you, then having you. Then missing you again.
I close my eyes at night and trace a star map, a constellation, of my favourite memories.
A first date in your old truck—we drove an hour to see a movie
And I fell asleep on the way home, so comfortable
In your presence that my former constant companion, Anxiety, fled.
The first time my son fell asleep flopped on top of you, like a puppy.
A road trip to another province, where you patiently trekked the pathways of my childhood.
The way you talk to the dog. (Oh, so much love in how you treat him.)
The fortitude with which you have spent years eating my experimental concoctions and many
many failures at baked bread.
Walks and talks and the cornucopia of simple things that we have strung together to spell love.
The truly exquisite comfort of being known by another human, as much as one can be.
Tomorrow you will arrive home. You are at once familiar and unknown again.
Still the butterflies in my stomach—still the admiration of your profile as you come close.
(Will that excitement ever fade? I won’t let it.)
You pull me close and kiss me deeply, fiercely hungry for simple human contact, touch.
Dip me back, lift me up onto the countertop to wrap my legs around you.
And after, the warmth. My best friend, breathing, beside me.
I always have so many things to tell you, but when you arrive they seem unnecessary—excess.
The love we make tastes like stars, and home.
Author: Keeley Milne
Editor: Emily Bartran