The Last Chapter

 It’s 7:19 a.m.


I’ve been awake since 2:22 a.m.  

I’ve read and re-read the messages we sent yesterday seventy two million times already and will likely read them seventy two million more before I can accept this dark, new reality I have to prepare myself to live in after an entire year of living in your light.  

That’s the pits.  

And it will be the pits for an unknown amount of time until my heart and my brain align and resurrect themselves into an even more beautiful version of me.

That’s what will happen.

And I will shine just a little bit brighter and my glow will radiate just a little more warmth. 

I will love harder and faster and truer.

Love makes us better.  Never worse.

You made me better.

I didn’t want to tell you goodbye.  I tried very hard not to have to.  I wanted to keep you around, floating in my atmosphere forever.  I could have done that.  I wanted to do that.  

But it was so hard.  

It hurt so much.  

The non existent conversations with you, that before had been so filled with life and humor and love, became unbearable.  I knew you were over it before the week even began but I tried to hold on for dear life. I clung to every sign of hope I thought I saw in your words until I realized those weren’t signs of hope at all.  They were just the dying embers of our burning ship, the one we accidentally set fire to the week we met.

You on a life boat over there and me on a life boat over here, each of us drifting to a separate island, our eyes strained against the dying of the light and the distance between us until we each disappeared from view.

 An image of you just now:

There’s a room covered in white canvas drop cloths.  There are several buckets of paint lined up in the middle of the floor.  I’m standing just out of frame.  You walk in, kneel down in front of one of the cans of paint and before you open it, you look up at me with a grin and a slight nod of your head and say “You ready?”  You open all the cans and stand up.  “We don’t need a paint brush.” We each grab a can of paint and splash all the colors all over those white canvas drop cloths until they are radiant and beautiful.  And we laugh.  And we are covered in paint.  And you look over at me and raise your eyebrows and say the only word there is to say.  


Yeah, Noah. 

Those white canvas drop cloths are me.  

I was tired and empty.

Stripped bare.

You knew what to do.


You said it wasn’t a conscious decision to drift away from me.

I believe you.

Love leads and you follow.  You held on to me as long as you could and gave me a safe space to explore a side of myself that I never knew existed. 

“I wish every woman could be lucky enough to experience you.”  I remember telling you that on more than one occasion.

I hope she treasures you for the gift you are. 

Thank you, Noah.

From the bottom of my aching but grateful heart.

I will always love you.

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