Love is a funny thing.
I never seem to get it right.
But even so.
Even when I screw up.
And it’s over.
And I’m left with my heartache.
Left to muse over its rich complexities.
There are still surprises.
Like finding myself washed over by an insane calm.
As if breathing is not the ridiculously difficult drawing of air it often seems, but happens as easily as the unthinking moon sailing across a sea of sky.
Like finding myself so content, with love’s memories replaying in my mind.
Their transitory, fluid choreography.
And catching a moment I hadn’t caught before.
While lying in bed, as if recovering from some great ailment, staring at the wall, darkness growing outside.
Yes. It’s true.
It is from here, from this place of peaceful quiet, that I can thoroughly let myself feel it.
“Oh my God. I really love him.”
And maybe that should feel like a bad thing, because now I’ve lost him.
Messed things up in that special way I have.
But instead, it makes me feel full, round.
This abstract, uncomplicated love.
My imagination projecting scenarios of his whereabouts.
In the city, shoulders thrown back, walking its night-time streets with his loose-hipped strut.
Making dinner for his children, his culinary hustle interrupted by those statuesque moments of stillness that seem to overtake him, a hand cupped to his mouth.
Standing outside of the old record store next to the library, pulling a brisk drag from his cigarette, considering his past in its windows.
I love him hugely.
It’s so simple.