Your Words

I have them.

 

Once scattered in a linguistic diaspora—the aftermath of our (or, perhaps, just my own) holocaust, where my beating heart was taken up and utterly consumed—now resting in books and shelves and fragments in my memory:

"I love you," the valediction on a Christmas card—

The slightly nervous "Hey," of your first voicemail— 

"Forever yours," engraved on a watch-face, what once was my heart—

 

I have them.

 

And, looking back, I try to see the moment you were lost, the moment I lost you—

But I can't.

Why?

I remember flashes, pinpoints on a map; I remember car rides and tears wiped away with understanding kisses, long walks with hurt silences always broken by a hand outstretched and a warm embrace; I remember our fears and hopes—our dreams for the future, our future—

But I can't find the moment.

Did it happen?

Will you come back for them, your words?—for me?—if I can just find the moment?

 

I have them.

 

They're here, waiting.

If I'd cherished them more, would you still Be?