Written for me, because of me, or in spite of me?

This is something that a dear dear friend wrote about me. It still makes me cry, though it's nearly two years later. It is beautiful, and it still makes me feel so special when I come across it.

I knock on her door knowing this is the last time in a long time. We’ve both got journeys to make, but one is worth more than the other. I’ve got luggage in my hands, yet she is the one who’s leaving. The first thing she says is “good morning”, the second thing she says is “don’t cry.” She knows me pretty well; there’s no chance that I’m going to cry, but I sure as hell want to.

I hug her how many times? Three, five? I don’t really remember. I do remember the lazy lovely weekends. The lunches we go to because neither of us feels like cooking. The fights that are over before they begin. The stupid jokes that seem brilliant when shared between us. Fox in Socks? I hug you! I remember the trivial times that, when added up, are the true times. The moments that make me glad to be alive.

On my false journey I sit watching the sun set over an ocean, high up above the land. “Only fools are enslaved by time and space!” I shout to myself. I convince myself that times will come back again and distances will shrink to nothing. But that is the immortal me who dares at gods, not the mortal me who fears in the dark. When the sun sets it gets dark. And I fear. I fear that I don’t get this again. I fear that her beauty won’t make me feel beautiful again. I fear that I am nothing more than me. And she is nothing more than she. I fear the truth when the sun goes down.

I’m already in view of the ocean, but my ticket is round-trip. Hers is one way, and it’s written in necessity. She goes because she should, because it is the best for her, because she has somewhere to go, because she is smart enough to dare. She goes because she must. I stay because I don’t know where to go, I don’t know what is best, I only know that I’m on the edge of banality.

High above the ground, high above the waves, on my sojourn from reality, where my troubles still follow, I look out to the western ocean. The ocean that will be her backyard. We are both going on journeys, but mine is almost over. Hers is to last for an age.

I love you. I miss you. We shared some good times. We shared some good space. We were more than certainly fools.