And these feelings – when they’re stirred – are not substantial.
A lingering emptiness long unnoticed is recalled.
It’s not a presence that reminds me of what I had.
It’s an absence that reminds me of what I lost.
Of her, of I, of us together.
If I’m honest I would say that I still love her.
(Though as time passes I think less and less with those words.)
Like a wound that heals slowly and imperfectly
It becomes routine and I am ever surprised
To discover that I’m still limping.
Now I know her faults and all the ways she wronged me.
But still… I know the way she smiled in the morning,
And I know she meant – even for that moment only –
The words she spoke as she pulled me down beside her.
The firelight dancing on her skin.