An explanation of love


I can always find him and a guitar on the porch around six in the morning when we are on the mountain.  When the sky is just starting to glow, he strums chords and hums along.  We sit side by side, our shoulders touching, my eyes closed.  We never speak until the last day, when summer is beginning a slow bow in departure. 

The guitar is silent today.  He murmurs my name and I open my eyes.  “What do you think heaven is like?” 

I think for a long time, but the only answer I can come up with is a shrug, bumping my shoulder against his without intent. 

He thumps the guitar with his palm and I close my eyes again.  “This is nice,” he tells me.  Besides the guitar, the rest of our morning is without sound. 




I always thought it silly when people would kill for love. 

There was a period of about two weeks where I did not get out of bed.  I did not go to class.  I called out of work.  I could not keep food down.  I could not drink anything.  My housemates worried.  Mandy made me chicken soup and sometimes tea.  I wore a blanket everywhere; it was the kimono of my depression. 

I locked myself in his bathroom and climbed in his bathtub.  I could hear scraping noises on the outside, and looking over, the tips of his fingers trying to reach under the door.  He kept saying please.  Please, please, please.  I don’t remember what he was asking for, I just remember his fingertips reaching for me. 

I opened the door.  It was the first time I ever saw him cry.  With tears in his eyes, he wasn’t the solid man I used to think he was.

He carried me to his bed and held me in his arms.  He played with my hair until I could finally fall asleep.  When I woke up the next morning, I felt happy.  He would take me back.  He would love me again.  After what we’d shared the night before, how could he not? 

He still left me for her.  It still killed me inside.  But I still loved him.  

To me, he was perfect.




There are 643 miles between my house and his, and he is terrified of planes.  Knowing that he has to get into a flying tin can of death makes saying goodbye harder on both of us.  We hold on to each other and cry, both of us, in the middle of the airport.  It feels like we are saying goodbye forever.  It’s hard not to feel that way, not knowing when one will see the other again.

Time is running out.  I say goodbye and pull away, but seconds later find myself back in your arms.  My father is watching us, pretending like he doesn’t notice how hopelessly attached to each other we are.  We’re not even dating.

He can’t seem to get in line, and perhaps only because we can’t seem to let go of each other.  We hold hands, each taking long, deep breaths.  We know that this is it… that this is the end.  We have to say goodbye.  “Five steps,” I suggest, squeezing his hand tightly.  “And then we let go.” 

One: A Celtic knot work ring he bought for me at the Irish festival to symbolize eternity. 

    Two:  The only sapphires I have ever owned hanging around his neck on a cord.

        Three:  He faced his biggest fear to come visit me.

            Four:  I think I fell harder than I meant to.

                Five:  This is it.  Let go…

I look back and watch as he makes it through security.  We wave one last time as he gets on the metro, which will take him to our platform.  My father tries to cheer me up with silly stories about our dog.  I don’t say anything at all.