Waiting On Every Sign and Signal to Know You’re Mine
Blink, and you’re back in that moment — the careful choreography of another romance’s waltz. You bend, hands gripped together, posture keen and ready. Your feet know this dance well enough, the graceful edges to moments you’ll look back on in the years to come and wonder, “Where did all the magic go?”
Blink, and you’re standing at the altar — perfect white dress, lovely lace promises, the flowers heralding the bloom of another spring in bliss. You lean in for that first kiss of promise, that last vow that will hang on for years — if you’re one of the lucky ones. Your heart knows the risk, but the scrapbook you look at in the years to come will make you go, “We were so happy.”
Blink, and you’re clutching petals fallen — that bouquet he brought for Valentine’s Day, its blossoms wilting from hours of neglect. You press your face to a rose, the only one still trying to thrive. Your eyes brim with tears that never fall, and you’re falling in a new way that makes you think, “Did he ever really care at all?”
Blink, and you’re twenty years older — hair streaked with gray, face lined with etches of a life well-lived. You are a ghost lingering in the empty spaces of this house that once felt so full. Your bedroom mirror tells the story all too well, one half of everything missing as you look around with a restless fervor. “He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.”
Blink, and you’re going through all the photo albums, reminiscing for what once was. You pause at every picture of him — the happy days, the bad days, and everything in-between. Your fingertips trace the smile you haven’t seen in years, and you realize with a start: “He was mine, wasn’t he?”
Blink — and the memories scatter to the wind, another lost soul gone to the ether, as simple as one breath, one gasp, one lifetime.