It isn’t as though I’ve received multitudes of love letters in my life. Two to be exact. Not counting a couple of irrelevant texts.
Yours was the most heartfelt. Yours was the one with the punch. The letter with the words that were real and true and from the deepest place within your soul.
I knew it then. I know it now. But I made a choice. We’d been through so much, you and I. Rough water under the bridge. How could I return? I’d moved on. But here’s the catch:
My heart remained with you. You still held it there in the same hand with which you wrote those beautiful words of love.
It’s still there, in your hand. My heart. It’s in your hands, in your chest, in your gorgeous, crystal clear blue eyes.
My heart is in what has become your scarred and herniated torso. Still beautiful. It remains in your arms. Your pumped and muscled arms that held me so tightly and safely for all that troubled time. The arms that saved me from myself. The arms that you are now working so hard at rebuilding to save yourself. My heart is firmly entrenched right there. Everywhere that you are, everything that you are.
So you see? I have answered. I never really left. You’ve held me all along. You didn’t know. You’ve never let me go.
You hugged me and said, “You’re so tiny, that when I hug you I feel like you’re going to come apart.”
I replied, “It’s when you hug me that I’m put back together.”
Together. My heart. With you.
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