A glimpse. A glamour. What wouldn’t I do to be a part of you and your story. To be caught up in all of time and space, the majesty, the grandeur. Even now, I still see you, see us, in the very fabric of existence. You pop out on occasion, slap me in the face, show me what’s real. But then you hide again, and I am only left with inclinations, intimations of what was. Was it real? Are memories real? They happened to me but were they real?

I am left, picking up the pieces. Fragments of a fragmented mind. I hope my search bears fruit. I hope I am right.

Your story. Our story.

It is told in a million different ways, with a million different faces. A million different voices. But I can always recognise when it’s you.

I can’t live without you. I have been blessed to have found you twice and cursed to have lost you twice.

But when I look into the very foundation, the very fabric of existence itself…I find beauty and acceptance and belonging. I find what I do not have.

I have given myself to you heart and soul. The route you took to win me was wondrous and cruel. And cold. And hard. And it hurts.

You found me first. And then you stayed around and you tried again. And it worked – I can’t remember that first year, the first time we met. They say that you know the one you fall in love with the moment you lay eyes on her. It’s not true. It took time, and opportunity. The one for you could be walking by your side this very evening. But if you aren’t open to it, if it’s not the right time, then they could be staring you in the face telling you that they love you and you would feel nothing.

But you still have the memories. Those foolish little things. Tricky. Unreliable. Blink and they’ll change on you – memories. You will have feelings and sensations that can’t be retrieved, longing and desire. Despair. Hopelessness.

I don’t know how to find you.

I don’t know where to look.

I don’t know what to do.

But I see beauty around me. I can still laugh. Still smile. It’s not much, but it’s something.

Yet time passes. As it always does. And I find myself longing for what was. Hoping for what might be and sad for what might come to pass.

We talk. In my dreams. But those I cannot recall. I don’t know where to go from here. I just…want to break reality up between my fingers. Like putty.

Oh how bitter! Such an intense sensation.

Not a pleasant taste. But possibly worth it.

Are great men made? Or are they forged? What about great women? Are we a victim of circumstance? Could we have made it when and where they did? Could they make it where we are? How can we judge? When we refuse to judge ourselves?