I was holding on to the image of you. The idea, the tiniest little hope that a miracle will happen and things will dramatically take a turn like what we see in Hollywood movies. I know otherwise, of course. No million dollar budget, and no script will make the present any different from what is. This dissonance tears at me. Tore at me.
I held onto the idea that if I let you go, what we have becomes less special, and that incredible connection we found and forged in an instant starts to fade. I hold onto that piece of me desperately, like a man clutching at clutter in a room. Each a memory of an emotion. Each precious in its own way. With a emotional weight and momentum. Like the memory and yearning for childhood keeps one from growing.
I was safe in that agony. The stasis was a familiar ache and the devil I know. Holding on, though, made me stop in my tracks. The memory of all those perfect instants of our meeting stays in my mind, more than a picture. It's like a snippet of life, repeated over and over again. Beautiful, sublime. Yet I cannot live in those times.
But I can preserve them. Hold them as precious. Set them into the tapestry of my soul and make them part of that beautiful mural. Eventually, I must choose to grow. To move again.
Thank you, for coming into my life, and for the precious gems that you left. In the end, though, I need to find my own way, and the companion who'd walk that way with me.
