Wildflowers and heartbreak

The way your hand reached for mine, but never quite filled all the spaces.

The way you let me go in airports, train stations, and sidewalks.

The way you watched from afar of my success, failures, and wanderings.

The way you sang to a tune on your traveling guitar, under desert lit stars.

The way wildflowers bouquets and cast iron breakfasts made a morning.

The way green rolling mountains and soft touches intoxicated my summer.

The way you cried in a lone gas station in twin falls Idaho as I drove away.

The way a split in the road, 500 miles we'd each drive, was in the rear view.

The way I'd only ever felt warmth on your chest, and love only seemed true.

The way you touched my soul, seemed irreplaceable, unconvincingly true.

The way I spent years trying to recover the hopelessness you left me with.

The way I made a story in my head about not going on without you.

The way I lied to myself about the only place on earth for me was you.

The way I slowly moved, hundreds of miles, across ferries, and islands.

The way I found something deep in me that you didn't steal, and rebuilt.

The way I was able to smile at birds, and trees, and mountains again.

The way the wild world wrapped itself around my lonely shaken being.

The way it filled the gaps between my fingers with it's breezes and sun.

The way I danced again, with strangers, and new friends.

The way I believed in myself that resilience was more true than love.

The way I knew home wasn't with you, when under that lighthouse.

The way I knew home was that little piece of me, that you never got to have.

The way I knew I could take that piece and plant it anywhere.

The way I knew I could grow a home again, no matter who tried to take it.