Don’t go yet, you’ve left too much behind. You left the scent of your skin on the sheets, the phantom feeling of your fingertips on my hand. Twice already I’ve turned to speak to you without you being there. My eyes are searching for you around corners and behind doors and even though I know you won’t be there, I hope you will be. You’ve gone from my home for a little while, taking my heart with you and I long to hold you again for a little while longer, kiss you just ten more times, only twenty more times, whisper things, “I love you,” and, “please don’t go.”
Perhaps the saddest thing is that all of the things that stir inside me are unable to be transferred to you. For example, this song I’m listening to is not just a song, because inside the guitar and the timbre of her voice are whole memories, entire geographies and ages that don’t exist anywhere but within me. I could take you to these places and point and tell you that it was here that this happened, and this is where I felt this way, but the air was stranger then, the trees held different leaves. I was different. The buildings are unchanged, except maybe worn down in places unnoticed. The trees are growing older and taller. The squirrels run. And this is a whole world, it’s one of mine, and even if I try to share it with you, there will always be the gap between us, the place where we breathe in and out, and the parts of me that I want to share will only blow away on their way from me to you. I want to find a way to explain to you or make you feel the things that I feel at times, when I am aware of my heart inside my chest, so fine, an unmissable and precise thread from the core of me to all of my fingers. I want you to know the parts of me that make me quiet and want to be alone, that make me love autumn when the weather turns cold. It is a place I am lonely inside. I can play you a song and search your eyes and wait but it’s not for you to understand, just as I could never understand the inner universe of you. But we try, and I suppose that is more than enough.
I text you every morning and say I love you,
but I’m sometimes sleepy and would always rather have you beside me.
But you aren’t, and so, with my eyes half-open, I text,
"I love you."
Sometimes I get it wrong
in my half-sleep stupor
and I type instead,
"I live you."
Odd, awkward grammar,
but at the heart of it, still true.