I’m sitting on the sofa gazing at the garden, listening to the birds cheep and chirp. I’m about to make myself a cup of tea as the day winds down and the evening rolls out, and I wish, oh how I desperately wish that you were here. I imagine that you’d just pop over for a visit and I’d put on the kettle for the both of us. I promise you that you’d be my most honored guest, you’d have my full attention. We’d sit outside and watch the sunset and I’d pretend that it wasn’t a big deal that you were here, normalizing the situation for myself, telling myself it was just another Tuesday, secretly all the while doing somersaults inside and feeling the smile right down to my toes. 

But it would be a big deal. I would remember it forever, etching it onto my beating aorta if you just came over to mine, the one time. It would carry me farther, because it would mean more, holding weight. 

Sometimes, I ask myself why must it be that I always go to you? Don’t you want to come to meet me too, even just half way? What do I have to do for that to happen? Maybe it’s not a question of doing, it’s one of hoping, praying, waiting, resting. 

Maybe it’s that you’d like to, but you can’t. You don’t know how. Maybe the flame of fear is too great and your trust too tired. Maybe you’ll see that I’ve moved on, I’m no longer the same girl you used to know, the one who used to cling to your pant legs. Part of her is still there though, wishing, wishing upon a star or a trillion that you’ll come to get her. Would that you could be here with me.