Every other summer we skipped each other like the rocks on the shore of the beach outside your door.
One year on, two years off. Five years; round three. You are you, and I am unfathomably still me.
You were a family vacation without the stress of the family; wanting to revisit the same spot over and over until it wore itself into tradition. 6th street is where I parked my car; where I parked my heart. Our tradition was in fact closed lips and tongue tied versions of what our hearts felt and our heads suppressed. We visited often.
I told you I loved you thirty seven times. To the back of your sleeping skull. To your silhouette outside the patio door. To the inside of an airplane window as I flew away…
We had a thing for leaving each other; for loving each other as we left. And finding one another just as available as the moment we first met. Connected just the same.
Oh universe; you twisted bitch.
She never let us say goodbye. And in the absence of answers, I found just that. The ability to move forward knowing that without closure; there was no end. That id see you again. Still intangible like the dreams that haunted me for seven hundred days of curiosities. But still, more alive than the five prior years we couldn’t seem to fuse our souls.
I know I hate the way the past beats at my insecurities. And the way repeating the same mistake feels like insanity. But I love the way you love the way I do just about anything but leave you.
I always thought I’d known what love was until I felt what it was like to have everything I’ve ever lost come back to me. And in that feeling I search for ways to frantically keep what had slipped from me blindly for half of a decade.
Reason. Distance. Time.
We’ve transcended all three. Like the amount of months in my favorite season; in the summers that I spent engulfed in your smile. Quickly turning into the next season, both me and the leaves falling for you.