A Shush, a Murmur

I looked up at the street lamp tonight, saw its light gilding the bare branches of a small oak. Soft flurries sifted into this golden circle, and I thought of you.

Last night I dreamt that I was saying goodbye to you, but in a different house and in a different life. Some things remained the same: your shirt collar brushing against my temple as I leaned in, the bristles on your jaw reaching down, the ridge of your nose sliding over mine. I haven’t kissed you in almost a decade but this is the kind of memory I was, at one point, prepared to build a lifetime on.

So I looked up at that street lamp tonight and saw snowflakes fall silently onto the roof of cars. And some day, when my breath slips as easily and softly away from me, it won’t matter any more that you made a fool of the girl I used to be or that I fell asleep to the sound of you breathing like a metronome that I used to count down the day. It won’t matter that you made me laugh until I snorted, that you lifted me off the bed so gently, that I tossed a pillow at your face as I yelled, that the jasmine plant you gifted me is long dead, as must be our dog, as must be any chance of seeing each other again.

All of this is fine, because it has to be.

And I am fine, because I have to be.

So when I look at the street lamp, it’s like another person is turning in the space I take up, looking for you. But you’re not there anymore and neither am I.