There was a time
when we had the most innocently
beautiful romance.
It was something you'd see in the movies -
but none of this "Fault in Our Stars" ****,
but like... "The Notebook."
Which is still ****,
but it's the best comparison I can think of.
You came to me in the month of November,
and we were instantly taken with each other.
You said, in your amazingly adorable German accent,
"I'll only be here for a year,"
And I pushed that to the back of my head to save until
later,
So perhaps it didn't seem as if we were counting
precious moments
in between easy conversation.
December came,
and snow fell with it,
as we continued to mirror the delicate
flakes descending on our noses
as we sled down neighborhood hills,
and you told me stories of your grandparent's house,
how knitting with your grandma was still a work in progress,
and the sock you attempted to make
looked more like a potato sack.
But this interaction,
you behind me,
I hugging onto your legs,
was the closest interaction I'd had
for the longest time.
That night,
I slept with you,
in the most innocent use of the phrase.
And when I woke, there you were,
gently stroking the small of my back,
smiling sleepily.
I wanted to wake up like this every time.
People would see us walking downtown together in spring,
and would sense our vibrancy,
and smile as we were lost in our own world.
We never spoke of being a "couple,"
and we never held hands or anything like that,
we just had a beautiful relationship.
And for once in my life,
even to this day,
I search for a man who was as respectable as you.
You left on an afternoon of June,
and told me you never kissed me because
"Loving you and leaving you are two things I cannot bear."
You returned two summers later.
And left again in late August.
Maybe one day you will stay.
The one man I've said "I love you" to and meant it.