My imagination alone dangerously remembers—“us.” My heart wants yours back.
To touch you with my thoughts makes my skin ache with jealousy and my hands restless— God how they want to run themselves up your arms, into the sleeves of your t-shirt tracing the contours of your shoulders, the nape of your neck, your skin a map memorized by my fingertips.
I can catch your scent with these memories, inhaling as if my lips were at your earlobes and I could leave my desire there with my exhale. Where we would have sighed together, I sigh alone— with memories that tease with an unkind intensity.
The love that lingers for you is riddled with desire, but confined to gratitude— thankful for having had you at all to stir up fear and coax it into excitement. I’m grateful for the parts of me I wouldn’t have seen without you, like an elixir of truth into my ability to love, to let in— to let go.
I’ve let my hands go from yours, but not my heart. Its been undone— revealing an immense capacity to feel, and I will collect our memories as lessons, as now a witness to where I gave everything and nothing at all and let the repressed truths from the depths of my being shine for having been kissed so sweetly by your acceptance and your love will linger in my growing to love myself and one day—another again.