I’ve loved you for so long—for so much of my life—that I don’t remember what it was like anymore, not having this aching, this longing for you inside me. Not having these dreams that have no chance of coming true. Insistent dreams that I dream anyway, because I’ve spent a lifetime dreaming them.
I remember one night, many years ago, after I had flown far, far from you. I was crying. We were on the phone and I was crying, telling you I was afraid I had flown so far that eventually you would forget me. And you told me to hush, to stop crying. That none of it was true. That you were at the age when you knew what was forever and what wasn’t. And that we would last longer than that, whether you saw me again or not.
Well, I’ve reached that age. I’m as old now as you were that night. I never thought you would be the one to fly away, too permanently far to ever return. And I finally understand what you tried to tell me. Because I still love you. And now I know, too, what lasts forever. And forever is too short to tell the story of how hopelessly I’m still in love with you, and how I will always be yours, whether I see you again or not.