I miss you today. I miss you often. Some days hit a little different though. Today it’s the sound of your voice and how I feel when you look at me – in that way you do – that I’m missing. The way you look at me always knocks me a little off center. Mostly because I equally long for it and fear it, at the same time. Fear it because I love you through this wild, alone.
If there’s one thing I need now, it would be to hear you say my name – to hear your voice. That and having this thing that stands between us, a distant memory.
When I was a kid, we camped on the beach. The waves crashed against the course sand – endlessly through the night. They were an ever present reminder of how something so wild and unruly can also be stable and predictable. How weird is that? Loving you is like that. Deeply comforting. Wildly unpredictable. And on days like today, as needed as the breath that fills my lungs.
Your words can sting. I don’t always know why. Today, they stung. More often than not – you are soulful, profound, and you have this way with words that I adore. But today? Your words were harsh. I still don’t know why.
I’ve tried to talk myself out of this. I succeed for a few days – screwing my head back on straight. I shake free of you. And then in an instant, I lose the ground I’ve gained.
When we are together, when we talk – I lose all track of time. I always want more – more of you. I want more of you. But I love you through this wild, alone.
This canyon between us – seems impassable today. I’m out here on the edge, hoping for some clarity, some sign that there’s hope. It eludes me, tonight.
We could quickly cross this divide to each other. If only you would reach out.
There’s a deep canyon between us. We could meet each other halfway – to bridge this divide. But until one of us starts the journey, the words I don’t say, outnumber the ones I speak.
I told a friend recently that I was waiting for the man that felt like home. I neglected to mention I’d already met you. It’s the way you say my name. Each time, I grow a little more certain. You’re the most home I’ve ever felt.
I write these words on slips of paper or type them out in quick paragraphs, storing them up for a day that may never come.
I am not ready to give up just yet though. Not when I’m finally home.
The weather turned a little corner and so did the light. The golden light of autumn is almost enough to convince me that all is right with the world. It gives me a little hope.
When we met, I never dreamed what you would mean to me. Knowing you is like knowing another part of me. You weren’t very nice to me the day we met, though. I forgave you. I am so glad I did.
I couldn’t help myself.
I’ve been hopelessly wrapped around your finger ever since. Even though I have to assume I’ll never see you again.
When the light hits just right or I’m feeling a little melancholy, I scribble these words wherever I can – receipts, slips of paper, notebooks, and things that remind me of you.
They live in a trunk in my office. They sit in piles on my desk and when the clutter is too much, I pack up all of the words that I would say to your face if I could and put them in the trunk – buried under the shawl my Grandma Amelia gave me and next to the horses I used to play with when I was a kid.
Sunday is the ever so weekly reminder that the work week has returned and I’m being drawn away from what I most want to be doing.
It’s Sunday night again. If you were here, our lazy day of rest would turn into a relaxed evening as we cook together. We would turn on the music and talk our way through our plans for the week.
You are the calm to my storm. You are my deep breath. Sunday night if you were here – your larger than life presence filling up this small space -I would think twice as I watch you washing dishes, about complaining that Monday is on our heels.
It has taken us so long to get to this moment. I don’t want to take a single second for granted. In the mundane of this every day moment, while you wash dishes, and I finish making our meal, I am reminded that this is everything I’ve ever wanted as quiet and normal as it is.
Sunday night if you were here, you would be another reminder of how the days and weeks conspire, with God’s hand on it all, to bring us exactly where we are meant to be, at exactly the right moment in time.