A candid tale of 20-something humanness and extended note to self.

Sunday, 15 January 2017

The day he got on a plane


We argued about his trip once. It wasn't that I didn't want him to go. It was just that, I didn't want him to go. Not for so long. Because they say that time is relative and so, two years, when you love like this,

is thousands of nights without his fingertips dancing with mine is the darkness,
and day, after day, after day
after day
after day
after day
of a life
that might seem,

less. 

He raised his voice that night, and I cried into the thick knit of the jumper I chose for him, tiny woollen fibres getting caught in the salt on my lips, the comforting smell of his aftershave, that smell, only intensifying the sobs.

But I realised, when we were caught up in the heat of it: when the air between us was thick and heavy and when voices broke, that this was different to anything before. We were fighting for something and not against each other. Fighting for the greater good: the greater us, and not the last word or the most piercing sting. There was not a single moment where it felt as if we were the question.

We have never been the question. 
Always,
the answer. 

And maybe it was that realisation that lead to this one. 

That I will love him
and I will love him
and I will love him
for the rest of my life.

My point, is that today my heart broke a little, because he is on a flight to the other side of the world.

But I think,
I hope,
what I've learnt,
through loving, and being loved like this,
is that
somebody leaving
does not always mean
that they have left,
and that an ending of sorts
is not the end.
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