Storms of the heart

She loved him. She opened up his heart, unlocked stone that had been hard and grey for many years. She softened him, and he softened her. But it never really was.

He told her that he loved her, many times. He held her in his arms, told her he wanted to make her feel safe, and protect her. They nurtured each other, made each other safe. Allowed each other to be themselves. Talked about anything and everything, silly and deep. Dark and hilarious. Daft and profound. All of it enriching both their lives.

It was all true, all real, in those blissful moments. And in the moments afterwards. But it was never to be forever. He was never really available. At best, he was on loan to her. And in those evenings and days under lease, she could pretend that he was all hers. And she was his.

Conditional love kills. Especially when she thought it was forever. It tears the heart into smithereens. It wrapped her in protective gauze, those words, those embraces, those actions, those promises. Eye to eye intimacy without fear. The sharing of weird or irregular things pouring out of them both without barriers, just because they trusted each other to tell those things to. And then it was taken away. She was simply told, "No more," and had to go cold turkey.

For two long days she thought she would die of heartbreak. Bedsheets wrapped up in soggy balls, absorbing tears and snot. A teddy bear embraced. A friend embraced. A hundred caring messages. Ridiculous, but she took every crumb of comfort because she needed it to stay alive. Two days doesn't sound like a long time, but it is when every second feels like torture. Every heart beat feels like a stab to the chest, because of the love that has been denied, removed. Leaving a void that feels infinite, that feels like it will never be full again.

Every candle lit, every shot of alcohol drank, every bit of wisdom, kindness and loving arms accepted. Because they were needed to keep her alive. She counted every second.

In the quiet alone moments, every memory of love and play rings as true as if it were still happening. Every photo, every video, every song shared. Every hold of a hand in the moments of embrace before sleep, every listen to his voice in a message brings him to her, as if through an air-mail of the heart. As if he is whispering sweet nothings and sweet everythings in her ear once more.

She doesn't even try to forget. There is no point. You cannot erase what is entwined in the heart and woven into the fabric of a life. She sees him in a favourite wine, or whiskey in the store.

She hears him in every other song playing on the radio. She feels his touch every time she combs her hair, or moisturises her hands. When she applies lipbalm, she feels his kiss, passionate and urgent and full of soul. She remembers how all of this stunned both of them into submission. They both melted into acceptance of a new and startling bond.

It is hard. She finds it so so hard. But at least it is not only a fantasy, she tells herself. At least the beauty of it all was real, and exists in the hearts of both of them, whether acknowledged or not. That knowledge cannot be taken from her. Or from him.

She feels him beside her very often. He imagines she is by his side. They both live a life where they create an empty shape that cannot be filled by the reality of the other.

They are forever. Whether they can touch again, or not. A twin flame, a red ribbon, two weird old souls gathered together, belonging temporarily to the world they create whilst they are together. A flame that can never be fully extinguished. A flame that burned the brightest, and lit the world in ways that were pure, strange and utterly present.