I Don't Think We Were In Love, But You Aren't Here Anymore

We met too young, love. I've decided that's the reason. We met too young but thought we were too old.

You were wild with the glory of youth. I remember that night at the cabin, when your family invited me to vacation. You flung yourself into the lake, your body flailing against the water. You looked like a fool, but you were my fool. You leapt out of the water, water dripping from your eyes. You kissed me and I thought my whole world was just water and kisses and the sunset.

I was quiet and serious. I remember the way you looked at me in the library, never quite understanding the secrets I was reading but adoring me anyway. You liked to see me frown, I loved to see you laugh.

Did you understand any of those poems I wrote? I found them the other day, under some old insurance papers, in that filing cabinet you bought for that crappy little apartment. I didn't know how to write then. I think there was a purity in all of that angst, but I wonder if you'd understand them now that I have learned to make thoughts leap from mind to mind.

We used to look at the stars. Some nights, I thought you cared more for the stars than for me. If only you would stare at me like that, I thought. I'd burn for you for a billion years. But you squeezed my hand and I knew that you saw my eyes sparkle in the glow of distant suns. I still look at the stars, although they make my eyes squint. I wish you were there to remind me to put my glasses on. I still forget.

I never understood why we wandered apart. Was it because you went away? I would have followed you, but you said we could call and write. Did you already sense the need for distance? Was your need to wander so great that you had to wander from me?

Or was it me? I remember that I loved my books, my writings, my organizer. Did those things scare you?

How did we let our fears drive us apart?