Did you know, every time you hint at coming to see me, or suggest we should run away into the woods, I pack a bag, just in case?
Even for the impossible scenarios, the days I know I can’t meet you halfway, or don’t have the mental energy to get myself to that tiny mountain town where pieces of my heart still lay scattered across the sidewalks, I pack a bag.
It’s always the same things; a long sleeve shirt, leggings, a deck of cards, a chess board, a journal, a Polaroid camera and instant coffee. I’ve survived on far less, and most people would call me underprepared, but I could pen an entire novel about your smile when you see me for the first time. I would be able to recall, with impeccable detail, every moment we spend together, for the rest of my days. Every song you hum would find its way into my fingertips tapping away the stress of my work days.
Even though I know for a fact you’re not here, I turn every corner with hope, hoping maybe today’s the day I see you standing at my front door, fumbling with a lighter, the wind making you curse the prairie winters, just waiting, for me. You’re hours away, and have never said you’d be here, but still I hold my breath for a split second, every now and then.
I guess I’m just always ready for you. Always hoping it won’t be another long month without you. Ironically, I never feel ready. I’ve changed. My body has changed. It scares me to think that you might not like me, if you meet me again. What if I’m too argumentative, too sensitive, gained too much weight or am entirely too needy, still? What if I’m too much? What, after all this time, we fuck this up? What if I’ve pushed too far and we can’t go back?
I am terrified.
But I have a bag packed anyway.