It snowed for the first time this winter yesterday, and I long to be at your side, wrapped in that purple blanket, head resting in the crook of your raw neck, gazing out through the frosted window as the delicate flakes descend from above, as effortless as the way your lips always seemed to find mine. Instead, we are miles apart, separated by much more than the briskness of today’s weather.
I heard your voice last night, and early into the morning. Three hours and thirty-six minutes of it. And once again, you sounded…you. We were…us. I could not tell you what we talked about. I was so caught up in the heat of the moment: your familiar voice pouring through the telephone and that occasional laugh that holds the capability to bring a smile to my face no matter the conditions.
I kept referring to us in the past tense, and you continuously asked me to stop. Neither of us want to let go. We cannot seem to release the grip on the thought of forever. “We were….” Or “we are….?” What are we? Broken, damaged, wounded…yes. But hopeful? Optimistic? The warmth radiating from you all those miles away sure as hell gave me hope for three hours and thirty-six minutes.
You know, maybe that is the problem. I am constantly asking questions that have no tangible answer. Maybe this love is a question best answered by nothing at all. Maybe this mess is an inquisition of the universe, a test best completed by effortless commitment, like the way those delicate flakes descend from above, finding their secure home on the cement of roads we once traveled below the stars, hand intertwined with hand. Maybe this is all so much simpler than you and I perceive. You and I. Me and You. Us. Four years committed, fourteen months deep in some obscure four-letter word, three weeks separated, and three hours and thirty-six minutes US. The snow is still falling, and I still long to be at your side.