It is hard for me to believe that I have within me the ability to write this essay… Because the wounds I feel without you hold me back, and tempt me into wasting time instead of writing this. But I guess this is a good place to start in explaining how it feels to love. Sometimes I ache, perhaps more than sometimes; But even in that, the fragrance of love is like an altar of incense burning bright with words, colors, and rich memories that I have of you and I in spaces without beginning or end. The crazy thing, is that I would rather do nothing else than to sit in this silence that was specifically made for me to think of you, praying in pear shaped tones.

I wake frustrated from dreams that I see you in, because I have neither the gift or ability to interpret them. Yet the feeling is still honorary to where upon my shoulders, because I hold in myself a love that does not speak the language of men. When I explain this love, it seems reality briefly leaves the eyes of those who listen, and they dumbfoundedly smile and ask me to repeat myself as if they heard me wrong. So I do, meanwhile wondering why I even bothered to bring it up in the first place, because I know that every fraction of this is something only meant to be shared between you and I, making people’s misunderstandings a luxury that only we share.

When I begin to think about the last time I held you, sometimes I desire to take that moment back, because I now know how it feels to be close to you. And I remember the way your body poured out to me in a moment of tacit conversation, soothing me like a cup of chamomile tea as we blended into things remembered, and farewells we wish we hadn’t given. If I didn’t hold you, I would only regret that I didn’t, so there is a constant war within me that makes me wonder if I should or should not do things for you. Sometimes, thinking of you simply isn’t enough, because now I am bothered by this solitude that curdles in my stomach like rotten milk, and I wait inside of these dark tunnels of my room waiting to hurtle towards heaven with you. Doubts fill me, occasionally more than my daily bread, and I begin to think in “what if’s.” What if the last time I saw you was actually the last time? What if someone else is speaking towards the sudden ripples of silver and gold that I saw birthed in you every time I came around? And truth be told, I would not be able to bear the weight of someone else’s name passing through your lips except mine. I would not be able to bear the rich splendor of every laugh you entrust to this dying world if I am not the one telling the joke. Now I must leave a tattered banner on distant mountaintops waiting for heaven to find my broken heart, hoping it will carry me to promised peaceful streams where garments roll away like scrolls, and these records of my wandering years can continue to weep for your loving hands. 

It is easy to look foolish, and even easier to fabricate assumptions when what you see isn’t clearly understood. But why should I be moved by those who have robbed themselves of beauty, and the time it takes to feel the depth of love in hours of departure? But who so desires to pour themself out lavishly to someone who may not respond appropriately to the act of unconditional love? For there is no love like the love that comes to a woeful heart, and the merging of two moments in time that join together the echoes of mind and soul. This world now has become a simple passageway that has led me to the walks of your life, where even though now you are somewhere in the world writing your story, I continue carrying you with me like a corsage of white roses neatly pinned against my heart.