The memory of love is long. Perhaps even longer than the love actually shared.
In the middle of the night, I had a curious missing, a small emptiness that arose, rather suddenly. I suddenly remembered what it was like to kiss your lips.
Of lips parting and softly touching in an embrace, warm and tender. And looking into your eyes with no conflict and only finding welcome openness.
It’s raining outside. The drops are fine and soft. And I can barely hear the droplets on the leaves outstretched like upturned palms and on the mottled cobblestones of my garden.
I don’t know what awakened this missing of you. This awareness of missing you. The awareness that you are, indeed, missing from me.
I had spent all day being beautiful, confident, intelligent, seductive and independent of others, and you, for my emotional welfare.
And at night, not just night, but night precisely when my consciousness has overstayed its welcome. I’ve forced myself to stay awake for no particular reason at all… and in the darkness as I finally, sensibly succumb to slumber, and only then, am I aware of “lack” “space” “vacuum” “empty” – concepts that have become visceral in the blueness of dawn. These are not hungry, desperate emotions, demanding fulfillment.
No. Not that.
It’s an awareness, like the gentle rain outside, that slowly dampens my senses.
I am a little frightened that this may wet me entirely, that I may lose myself and my purpose in this deluge of missing. That I may come to drown in it. That I may ache and soon acutely hurt, despite not having been affected by your taking leave of New York, of me, for other, more important things. I accepted it, and the parting and the aftermath, as we separated in body and mind, dissolved silently and increasing our bonds in space and time.
So reasonable was my acceptance, so mature and methodical, and slow, that I thought it were genuine and organic. Progressive development, positive ends for great beginnings of new possibilities.
So organic was my indifference, so natural my assumption of apathy that I began to doubt our connection and relegate it to mere sexual chemistry, or my hypomanic elation and euphoria. I will not know, as I lack objectivity.
But there was something there, wasn’t there? Something genuine. An exchange. A flow. Something broke. Something ended. I didn’t want to have to mourn it. And I am slowly, wet, awaring myself to that necessity. This is not meant to be easy and there are no emotional shortcuts.
All things are exchanges, of this I became aware when I left my twenties behind. And for my happiness with you, I now experience the sorrow of parting and passing.
I miss the we that was. I must have loved you, Julian.
Originally written on November 3, 2010