It is untamed. Wild and unplanned. I wake deep in thought, recalling the mornings in the Redwoods – the air cold and damp. There was nothing around but the untouched forest. Standing there, facing the west, I saw the Pacific resting between the hills – the brush wild and untamed. So perfectly beautiful and lonely.
This is what it’s like to love you. On a day I least expected you, there you were. We are perfect partners. We think alike. But not. In that place in between, where we differ, you shine most.
There are more questions than answers. In the beauty of this wild thing, I long for you. What is and will not be follows me around like a coastal fog. Through the haze I see you. I don’t hold it against you – you can’t tame wild things.
I live here in this tension, with what will not be, settling into the cold, wild – alone.
*I originally wrote this in August. It’s what prompted me to start writing a new novel. I can’t say it’s fiction. But it did inspire me to write fiction. I’m currently knee deep in edits of this novel. It looks very different than the one I finished writing in November. But I’m grateful the inspiration continues to flow.*
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.