I miss you already.
Not the way I do when you leave for work or are away for days. I miss you then, too, in that silly way that makes me coo into the phone when I hear your voice and smile thinking of your return.
No, I miss you more than that.
When I stop to think about the fact that everything will end . . .
That we will end . . .
There’s no avoiding our goodbye.
I’ll go first. Or you. We might go together.
But we’ll be over.
This love that bleeds from me to you and back again, a never-ending pulse of life that flows between us, will end.
Our language will be catalogued among the many whose echoes have faded from existence. Our inside jokes will illicit no giggles.
I want us to go on forever, comets across the sky.
Our love streaking in vapor trails through the universe. They’ll point up and stare as we burn beyond the moon and leave behind the hope that comes from wishing upon our light.
I want us to go on forever, hands locked together and legs entwined.
Sculptures, quiet muses, for the artists who want to know what love looks like.
I want us to go on forever, filling pages with stories of struggle and triumph.
Our love soaked in tears from those who read between our lines.
My heart aches from missing you already . . . in those moments when I stop and breathlessly recall that eternity can’t be ours.