Person I love,

I remember the light

I remember how it felt lying on your bed with one side of my face squashed against your mountain of pillows and all I could hear was your breathing in and out and in and out. And in and out. And the heartbeat in my chest was threatening to give my desperation away because all it sounded like was a loud continuous chant of please-don’t go please-don’t go please-don’t go.

I remember that evening we sat in your car while the sun went down and I was overwhelmed with a sudden urge to share parts of my past you didn’t know of yet so I sat there and rambled on and on with something lodged in my throat about the people who disappointed and the people who hurt and the people who chose to look the other way hoping somewhere in the future I wouldn’t have to speak of you in that context. And then you looked at me the way you always do and told me I should have known.

But I didn’t know many things then and I still don’t now.

Like why your tiny hands fit perfectly between my pudgy fingers and why the light in your eyes can brighten up a room so effortlessly when you speak of the things you love. And why I want to spend my days making sure that the light doesn’t go out.