There are days that I forget about you. You — heavy and soft and… real. Most days I only feel your absence — the stillness that rests between these two arms and that throbbing pang of sorrow that courses through this wanting heart. And it’s the focus on the absence that makes it so easy to forget. Because that absence, it consumes. It corrodes away the space between us until all that is visible is that vast ravine, trailing off into the abyss far beyond my unavailing reach. You, over there. Me, over here.
But I still reach. Through the ever-growing darkness your absence leaves in its wake, these arms reach with fierce determination for hope, for… you. And as my lonely fingertips dance along the edge of that expansive cliff, my gaze struggles to find reprieve from the darkness of this deep void — searching for light and finding only defeat.
But sometimes, if I look close enough, I see it — that speck of illumination. And I remember. I remember what it was like when you felt exciting and hopeful and possible. I remember… you. And as my arms reach with renewed fervor, they stretch no longer into the darkness, but into the light. And there they remain with the burden of hope and the expectation of you. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting in the light of hope, and thinking to myself that absence really does make the heart grow fonder, doesn’t it? Because I’m really quite fond of you.