To an Old Flame

I did not want to write to you. Or maybe, I just wanted to write a lie.

I did not want to tell you how you flipped a match into my soul and set it ablaze. I did not want to tell you about whispering your name in the middle of the night only for the sheer need to feel it linger in the air. I did not want to tell you how I’d pray to have you back even though I’m not religious. How I’m still trying to dissect the mystery of you. About tracing my finger over your photographs. About looking for your ghost in all the familiar places. About how the memory of you made my skin tingle with aliveness. How I could still feel awe by the mere thought of your soulful beauty. How I longed to hear your voice and feel an energized calm, a sense of peace - a childlike wonder. How I used to dream about hiding out in the woods with you.

Instead, I wanted to write how I had fallen in love again. How you were easily replaceable. How I never looked back and felt longing. How I never needed your eyes on me. How my heart was not at all breaking with grief for all that could never be.

To admit that I loved you was too damn scary. But it doesn’t matter now, because you probably knew anyway. And the truth is, you were never available to love. I release all of it, with gratitude to have experienced these greater depths of my soul - a feeling of awe, inspiration and wonder never experienced before. My own envelope expanding and you, the catalyst.

Time heals us, doesn't it? I am reminded of my resilience. If you'd ask me how I'm doing now I'd reply, “I am alive with wonder. I am my own driving force.”