I’m not sure.
I can’t shake the feeling
of how strange it is to
walk these halls,
occupy these spaces,
drive past our places —
and still not talk to you.
It feels wrong.
How long will it take
to undo the years of
memories I have of you?
Of us together?
You are embedded in my idea of home.
My brain still struggles to reconcile
the idea that I am here, and yet I
should not, could not, can not
talk to you.
Someday it will feel right to be here
without you
maybe once the years (since) without you
outnumber the years with you.
And yet,
our time here was for longer expanses,
at least initially.
Not all weekend jaunts
and stolen, extended breaks.
Quality time,
or so I like to think now.
Funny,
in the moment,
I did not see it as such,
did not recognize
the building blocks of love
falling so effortlessly into place,
don’t remember my trust
as something I was wary to give away
(i.e., present time).
We loved
in that young, naive way
that only happens once
or maybe once-and-a-half
in a person’s life.
I thought I was in love once before,
but now I can see
there was only potential for love,
nothing truly fulfilled.
The freshness of first love,
unscarred and unafraid
to love wholeheartedly.
I’d like to think you haven’t ruined me,
but truthfully?
I’m not sure.
