The Whisper of You

I visited New York this weekend. The last time I visited, I was with you. You had never been to the city before, and you stared up at the tall buildings, lights, and colors like a kid at an amusement park. I remember being aware of you as we walked the streets, having only known you three days, and we talked about anything and everything, like we were in our own little bubble. Late in the evening, after everyone else headed to bed, we stayed up in the lobby, still talking, until we finally decided to turn in. We went up to the 14th floor, where my room was, and you gave me a hug just outside the elevator. It was a real hug, full of questions and sparks and vulnerability, and after a moment you pulled away, brushing my cheek. I remember looking up at you, standing in the embrace for just a moment too long, as some sort of recognition flew between us. I know you. And I will see you again.

I remembered all this as I walked the streets again, nearly a year later, a whisper of you in the breeze off the river, your shadow mingling under the street lights. You are long gone now, and things between us have changed — for the better, though I did not recognize it as such when our relationship, like a time bomb, self-destructed. The whisper of you is a sweet one — I am glad for the memory, glad for the experience, glad to let you go. Glad that now you are no more than a whisper.