So I asked him about love and what it meant to him.
My mind was split into wanting to listen and fighting to silence the memories that raged in my own head, each one an ear-splitting scream. He said love was about trust, it was about being loyal, but all I could see was your hand in mine and sand between our toes and secret smiles shot that always hit home. He told me he wasn’t sure he’d ever been in love, not truly, not the head over heels kind of way that leaves you struggling for breath and your heart pounding a rhythm you’ve never heard before. I nodded in understanding even though I couldn’t relate, even though I could remember spilling my doubts and my fears like oceans and feeling the soothing sensation of the wind on my wet skin, knowing I was being listened to. Knowing I was home, here, with you, with salt clinging to my lashes. Knowing I could reach out and brush my thumb over the curve of your lips and having you lean into my touch. He said love was something that had to be felt, not seen, and I thought of the way your eyes lit up when I laughed or the quiet way you watched me when you spoke, waiting for my reaction. When he asked me about love, I told him I was sorry.
Sorry because the part of me that wanted to finally stop living in the past ached, but the other part that clung to memories like they were its anchor to this world won. It won because when I had asked you about love all these years ago, you’d only stared at me, that weird expression on your face and said, “why waste time explaining when I can show you?”
