If you love something, let it go.
I look down at your fingers tightly wrapped around mine, the grip of someone
holding something precious, of the child racing home to show his mother the
shiny stone he found on the playground, the curled fingers you wake up to from
a dream where you cling to something desperately only to have it dissolve.
I love the way you look me straight in the eyes and say 'I'm in love with you.'
Like it’s a deadly serious secret, like you've spent hours thinking about it,
like it has changed your life. I love the way you reach for me in your sleep.
Like even a dream is too far from me, like you're scared I might wander off as
you sleep, like you might forget me if I'm too far away. I love the way you put
your hand on the small of my back when I'm afraid. Like you're guiding me, like
you want me to know you're but an inch away, like you're my guardian angel.
I love the way you kiss me on the forehead, the way you fall into step with me
when I walk, the way you know I'm upset from just looking into my eyes.
If you love something, let it go. And if it returns it was always yours.
The spaces connecting seconds, the pause between breaths, the instants linking
heartbeats, they stretch into infinity without you. I swim through a constant
fog of memories, clouding my eyes, slowing my heart. I reach to the other side
of the bed only to be rejected be the cold, I mourn the loss of your hand on
mine as I drive, I wake up listless from the false hope of days together.
My eyes burn. My body pines. My heart aches. The disease of lost love, the
ailment of distance, the illness of falling asleep alone, engulfs me.
If you love something, let it go.
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