The French long by insisting that their beloved is missing from them. And linguistic merit aside, what a poetic way to capture the delicate nature of unmet desire — I am not unchanged by your absence.
Of course I am not.
In the universe of us, we lived loudest on Thursdays. On those nights tucked by your side, there could be no wrong, no sorrow, no turmoil. There was only you, me, and the budding hope blooming around us — in the synchronous giggles that filled the room, the brush of your hand against mine, your gaze that I could rarely meet for long. My cheeks still flush red at the thought.
Your presence was everything; steady and warm, kind and caring. Next to you on Thursdays, I felt 10 feet tall, like a final puzzle piece fitting into place. I laid my head in the home we built together, arms full of you and heart fuller of bliss.
Recently, I dreamt of you a few nights in a row. I can’t tell you now what I saw, but I can tell you what I felt — at ease. The serenity of the moment was so intoxicating that I traced the seams of your shirt to be sure you were real. I pressed my fingers into your skin to confirm you weren’t just a ghost cloaked in my most earnest wish.
But you slipped through my fingers like smoke and I awoke in a familiar restlessness, disappointed by the illusion and unsettled as comfort drained out of my skin.
The first few minutes of these quiet mornings are always fraught with a heaviness. Eyelids still fluttering, I will myself to breathe deeply into and out of the hollow in my chest. I tell myself that the science of muscle recovery requires oxygen and what is the heart, first and foremost, if not a muscle? I tell myself a lot of silly things to get by these days.
My love, it is very hard to not feel the sting of your loss but more profoundly, it is very hard to not feel the full weight of your presence, still, in my heart. It is, in fact, very easy. And for this reason, I am changed by your absence.
In your absence, I have grown morose but agitated. What do I do with all you left within me? If the half-life of love is truly forever, where will I stash it all? I’m just a woman. Where do I put the future I was carefully piecing together for us? Do I dust it from time to time, just in case? I’m just a woman. The memories? Do I use new ones to dress the ones of you? It probably won’t work but I’ll try anyway. It could get close I suppose, but you’ll still flicker around the perimeters like embers of a last flame and what do I even do with that?
Nothing. You don’t cross my mind, you live in it and I am both the first and last to cast you out.
If our lives are comets in the cosmos, I’m grateful our paths ran parallel, if briefly. And if our journeys are serendipitous circumstances, I’m humbled by their intersection. But if time is measured by Thursdays, my conviction wavers. When it comes to you, extraordinary you, there is no enough.
A lifetime of Thursdays — it is the best part of you that is missing from me.
