Valentine’s Day always has a spot in my heart for holidays, not even for the love, really. As a vintage fiend, it’s hard to resist the charms of gold foiling and lace doily hearts and bubbly cupid imagery. The romantic in me is just overjoyed in the days leading up to the 14th, but I must admit, it’s trying. For someone with their other half halfway across the world in England, you can hardly expect me to hate this time of the year. I never even write about love. As it’s the easiest thing you can write about– it’s also in my sense of it all, the hardest to approach. I’ve never been comfortable writing about it, until now, until I really start feeling the pains of being apart.
In the wake of one of the most romantic days, I leave you here these short pieces.
This could be the happiest moment, were you not happy somewhere else.
Voicemails still matter.
They’re the only way I can still hear that accent and pretend you’re telling me something about the hair band on the radio or Saturday’s soccer match and I wouldn’t understand any of it.
You’re in another world but old technology makes me forget that.
When You Coming Back
The last night dreams are forgotten. Those moments are remembered but gone away. For all this pain there is the promise of that last page in our book where we’ve written a “maybe” in March. Tucked out of sight– but still there.
Feeling like you’re at the top of this skyscraper but oh, dreadful to be looking down the view when no one’s there to believe it, too.