Luminescence – A Love Letter

A heart made of thin glass, lying in trembling hands and unsteady, was something I offered you years ago. You didn’t understand the depth of risk I took, but you accepted the gift with kind eyes and a gentle spirit. I knew you very well then. You held my faith, my trust, my confidence, so I felt you may be willing to carry such a burden. You were so magical in how you unveiled your ability to mend something so fathomably untouchable and torn.

When I cautiously lifted the hindrance to you, I could feel it begin to fall back together. With every respectful touch, every subtle glance, every glorious, careless display of personality, you slowly pieced the glass back together and gave yourself to me. You entrusted me with your everything, with all of you. And I had never felt so much pride and joy as I did with you. You were a comfort, a warmth unparalleled. I did not have to ask you to be with me; you made that choice your own. And I have never experienced anything so beautiful as that. As you. 

You were in every way gorgeous: your movement, your intelligence, your talent, your ever-present openness. The way you looked at me with those large, dark, caring eyes brought an irreplaceable sense of purpose. Love radiated from those eyes, and like the gleam of a harvest moon, my world was illuminated. I loved watching you, calm, at peace, with a quiet mind. It was clear my broken heart was no burden to you at all. What I couldn’t carry anymore became weightless on your shoulders. You were the only one who could effortlessly hold it together.

I owed you everything. I loved you with everything I had. I was wholly yours. 

One cool October day I was forced to face a decision that, had you not been holding my heart, would have shattered it completely beyond repair. And I had to go. I imagine you did not understand, but you may have understood I left my heart with you, as you watched my car pull out of the driveway for the last time. I still wonder if it took time for you to realize I wasn’t coming back, or if you felt the unadulterated agony you kept with you, and just knew. Still you held it, now more a burden than ever, and still now you keep it. Is it still weightless? Is it still effortless? 

It must be, for it’s been nearly five years, and I have yet to get it back. So please keep it with you if you’re willing; I know it is safe. And when you feel it glow, warm with joy, know then that I am thinking of you.


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