I’d love to write about you, the way I once did.
If I could write…
My heart must have weakened, or else I’m just scared these words mean nothing, to face that is worse than being vulnerable. But you know me, I’m going to do it anyway. Made a medicine out of this pain, kicked the habit some time back, yet still get these cravings…
You know I’d write about a walk by the river, I would recall how I foresaw this exact scene and wrote about it, many years before, when I envisioned this day, never thinking it could have been premonition. I still have that letter, it’s somewhere amidst the wreckage on these pages. I’d detail the static in the space between your arm and my own as we walked side by side, so aware how close you stood beside me after years of absence and radio silence. I would write, so carefully, how it tenderly destroyed me to see your smile curl up in that specific way, simultaneously seeing the man you have become with the boy I knew and loved. I would tell you in no uncertain terms how sweet, and yet, how bitter it felt to cry as my tears dropped like daggers upon your bare shoulder. And you, staring ahead doing your best to maintain a stoic restraint.
I would write of your back, your legs, your arms, the pattern of your steps, as I watched you walk ahead of me, unaware I was pulling up behind you, and I would tell you how it felt to finally run and embrace you after 15 years believing this moment would never come.
I could express with colorful romantic language where we were on the highway and how it hit my soul when you reached for my hand. I could delicately design a sentence about the reasons I wept at the gesture, prompting you to reassure me it would be okay.
I could write about the desperation to stop time as we shared one last moment, each movement apart from me dissolving our connection as you stepped away to leave. I would tell of the way my hair blew into my eyes, the way I clutched my chest with the ache, as I stood there, watching you go. I would write of the moment you turned around, too just waiting, for something, for nothing, for everything. I could transcribe from a pristine memory the last words you spoke to me, standing there smiling, and why it was never going to be goodbye. I could describe the urgency to bridge the gap one more time, and how my arms felt around you, the lines on your face, the finality in your eyes, and how my fingers graced your cheek as it had done a thousand times before, in some other life we once shared.
I am not sure I can write…
The way I once did.