I still think of you on Sunday mornings and even though that was never our story, it is still the truest one that I have ever told – if only so I can sleep at night.
The light expands like lungs and air, pressing me into your ghost, before you disappear. I skim our surface. My body needs time to trust the feeling: wanted. And even more time to admit: want.
You took back your tender mouthfuls of I-love-you and morsels of tongue-tied lips, but I stayed. Stranded here, with only everything I imagined. Telling myself stories, conjuring my little song.
what is beautiful remains 
How utterly gorgeous and sad – wistful. I understand more than you know!
My dear, if you feel understood – then – I know. The words somehow found a way to say what can’t be said. That is what I always hope for. I’m so glad they found you, too.