You. You were easily the light of my life. I didnt have walls. I only had doors flung open; a warm invite. A better part of my life tucked neatly at the back of my mind where it had grown a garden of potentialities and hope and thoughts like maybe this time we'll do it right. Every passing catastrophe has taught me that the eye of the storm is where the calmest region of the weather is; not the opposite. It goes to say that just because we're caught in the middle of a calamity doesnt mean it's always a heartbreak from here on out.
I admit that your absence almost always feels synonymous to my bed stretching out to the side. It always feels too huge, empty, lonely. I admit that I have not met anyone who loved black coffee so much more than you did. And I loved you, perhaps so much more than you did. I'm still learning to accept that. Funny, how unconditional love comes with an abundance in conditions. But they say you cant really love too much you can only love the wrong person.
You were an interlude to the series of my raging calamity. You were the eye of the storm, the calm, the petrichor after a long period of drought. Registered in my fondest memories. A parched corsage in a memory box that shouldve stayed under my bed. Shouldnt have belonged elsewhere. Shouldnt have belonged now. But that's okay. I'd argue that the imperfect line where I trace down your spine is where the earth grows soft. The soil, damped, the last time I've ever looked into your eyes; the last time I will ever look into your eyes. Reeled out the last remaining molecule of my peace and gave it to you when you lost yours. Loneliness isnt the absence of peace, I have realized. Loneliness is just love with nowhere to go. Like yellow cars on a bus lane. Etched out of place but only because the signs are obscure and hazy; a product of naivete, a voluntary free fall.
You will perpetually only be my great perhaps. And that's okay. I've learned to forgive myself for refusing to believe that in the past.