Part I: The Way It Should Have Been

In all the time we spent together - days exploring dusty, second hand book stores, hours you left nothing of yourself behind for remembrance. Not a single rose from celebratory bouquets, no packet of love letters tied with a silken ribbon, no tattered, favorite shirts infused with your scent, no CD with our song, to play on “repeat” as I mourned our loss.

I see you, the way you were that last evening: casual gray suit, hair slicked back, the warm spice of your cologne wafting over my skin; the sun beginning to set as our dinners cooled on the table. Without a word, you extended your hand, translucent blue eyes asking me to dance. You led me to the stone dance floor and I knew...this was our last dance.

We began to sway with the music's melancholy blues, the air icing my skin - I wore a gauzy, summer dress even though it was early fall. Tears began to run: raging, endless, pouring down my face, soaking your shirt. You pulled me closer - so close, your body heat became my own - waltzed me around gently as if you were afraid squeezing too tightly would shatter my bones, the way your words had shattered my heart.

I wanted was for that song to play forever, locking us in the moment, capturing us in each others arms. I knew you would leave when the music ended, my tears and broken spirit - too much for you to handle. A soft kiss to the forehead, a few words of kindness and you were gone. You didn't want harsh words or confrontation, but rather a friendship that carried beyond the pain; you didn't know the confrontation, the hurt and the hate would come later, with or without your tacit approval.