Sometimes Silence

They say the first thing you forget about a person is their voice. I haven't forgotten yours. Not yet. 

It's been so long that I fear you've changed. I'm afraid the memories deceive me. I'm scared that the one I left and the person I meet won't be the same person. I'm afraid that this won't be a rekindling of two souls, but an awkward exchange between two equally wounded individuals who barely know each other anymore.

But I haven't changed, I can promise you that. I'm still the same way you found me - broken and alone.

My mind is full of everything I've ever wanted to say to you; I wrote it all down so I could remember. I have it all planned out. I replay the moment over and over in my mind, as if it's already happened: you walking through the door, a smile on your lips, your eyes electric and piercing, and your voice. It's sweeter, smoother than I remember. Your very presence is soothing to my aching heart. And then I would spill the beans, I would tell you everything I was too timid to say before. I would come clean about me. About you.

I sit where I can see the door clearly without being too obvious. The butterflies in my stomach nearly fly from my mouth in a nervous stream of excitement, my heart thunders inside my chest, threatening to explode. My eyes stray back to the door incessantly; I can't help it. I rehearse in my mind again and again, waiting, feeling, hoping, dying.

Time came and went. It was time to go home. I stand there, lost in the throng, alone in disbelief. Surrounded by people, none of them you.

Frozen beside the door. I can't leave. I can't leave you. 

I hit the door, I hear my name. I turn and you are there. No angels singing, no rainbows in the sky, no beating of my heart. Only you.

I find myself falling, falling into your embrace, a jumble of smiles and tears, exhausted and trembling, broken but no longer alone.

The words die in my throat.

Sometimes silence is the only way to tell you how I feel.