I have this terrible impulse to “accidentally” email you. The most chicken shit move of all, I know. I hope I don’t do it. When we do speak again (because we will, of course, and how could I ever doubt that), I don’t want it to start with lie, especially one so lame, so couched in desperation. And transparent. As transparent as when you did the same to me all those years ago, with those texts, so innocuous and yet so sure, the ones that sent me reeling, set me ablaze. Almost four years exactly, which is hard to believe. You feel like yesterday, and you feel like tomorrow, like always. How could you not.

Is this great love? Is this my great love story? I hope not. I hope it gets better. I hope it can be real, inside and out and straight down to the core of me, and of you. I hope it can be so breathtakingly open, still and there and eye to eye and not looking away, that it tilts my world on its axis, changes everything I ever assumed about or expected from love.

But. If this is it, if you are that great love, okay. Against my better judgement I’ll probably hang onto you, that something to fill the empty spaces, to sit on the other side of the song. I miss you, today and tomorrow, miss you and the yesterdays when you were so close that, for a moment, you almost felt like mine. You and the furrow right in the middle of your brow, you and that silver ring on your finger, the tattoos I never asked about, the song you said was ours but I forgot, the shudder that shot through you in your sleep, my thumb soothing its way across your eyebrow, the way you looked at me that night it all fell apart. Today, tomorrow, yesterday. Most days, it all feels the same.