I don’t know who you are anymore,
but I remember, 
I remember who you were.

7-weeks:

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There are many things that I will remember you for,
but destroying me will not be one of them.

Give me something to relate to.
This path isn’t easy.
There are no signs, or traces.
The trail isn’t consistent,
but it consists of shallow footprints
that all differ from each other.
Give me someone to relate to.

I know that I fill the shoes of many
who have each taken their own paths.
But I have yet to meet someone
who once stood where I stand.
Give me someone to relate to. 

I love to write
Especially about you.
Because it is the only way
Where I can love you anymore.

I was taught that intimacy
was the breaths between kisses
and the placement of hands and fingers.
I was taught that it was something
humans were born to feel.
that it was a biological goal that we all would find
when skin met skin.
I was taught that intimacy
was the beauty of being against the walls
as internal walls came crashing down. 

but that was a lesson, in an entirely different book.
an entirely new course.
But as I lived,
I learned.

and I learned that intimacy
is waking up with you, but not next to you.
it is the times you walked me to the cemetery, but didn’t say a word.
it is the way you know my habits, but don’t think twice about them.
it is the way you know my thoughts, before I find the words.
it is the way I can look at you and tell you that I love you without words
and it is the way you understand, without needing to hear them.

you have never touched me.
not once have you tried.
you were not like any other.

But in an entirely different chapter,
of another book, in another course
I learned of a different kind of intimacy,
between you,
and me. 
 

when clouds are grey. or when the sun shines bright
when I’m fully rested, or can’t sleep at night
when I’m at my best, standing strong and tall
when I’m at my worst, caught in the free fall

it’s you, it’s you.
it’s you that I look for.
it’s you that I look to.
It’s you that I think of.
it’s you
it’s you
it’s always, you. 

In my most intimate relationship,
he never laid a hand on me.
I was touched, but not with fingers.
I felt warmth, but not where skin meant skin.

In my most intimate relationship
we fell asleep together, but woke up on different beds.

In my most intimate relationship
I could look at him with emotions
and he would know my thoughts
before I could find the words.

my most intimate relationship
and we never once touched.

if the past were to build an army,
there’d be no hope for victory.

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They’ve been trying, trying to make reservations for two. 
But you got me, got me making reservations for you.