I wrote a long post about what happened, but that’s not what’s important—it never has been.

Yesterday the English boy left for good and my heart aches more than I thought it would.

With him I felt safe at a time when I was afraid of my own shadow, beautiful when I was scraped and scarred, and looked after when I felt ready to give up and throw in my travel towel.

It didn’t occur to me until after he told me he thought continuing this would be impractical, until after we fought, until after the tears came and I started missing his presence, but now I wonder: if what we had wasn’t love—however short and messy and imperfect and improbable—then what is?



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s