Of Mays and Junes

He tells me they first came to know each other as children. Even then, he says, she was everything to him. He recalls how she was so different from everyone else; how her hair danced about when they played, how her eyes had a sparkle not unlike that of sunlight on silver, and how her sweet voice calmed him so.

He loved her deeply. And though he professes a love passionate and violent, it was, in truth, patient and steadfast. It was a love no one could ever take from him, for he had woven her tightly into the the deepest layers that made up his being. It was a weave so intricate and fine that at some point, loving her was him. Where he ended, she began. He loved her deeply.

All he has of her now are memories of quiet mornings they'd spend in each other's arms. There, in the comfort of secrets, no words were spoken. There, he says, he felt no need for her to love him back. All he wanted was for her to never to doubt him. Never, for even a second, not to feel his love; distance, time, and circumstance notwithstanding. These memories are all he has now. He says they are more than enough.

He stands by what he says still. Different degrees of separation have done nothing. He still breathes her. You can see it in his eyes. He loves her deeply, still.

That's all he has, and nothing can take that away from him.

"These days are the loneliest days.
Should I try to believe goodbye?"