You Will Always Feel Like A Sunday Evening, Beautiful But Fleeting

Everything about you whispers goodbye; a longing clings to you like the scent of packed out tube stations and slept-in clothes. I see the distance in your eyes and feel the brushing of your fingertips against mine.

It always feels like you’re leaving, a part of you will always belong somewhere else, in that city where we fell in love.

And even when you’re here, every morning is a day closer to when you’ll leave.

And I lie there as the sun begins its journey across the sky, and I try to memorize every inch of you—the perfect curve to your lips and the way the ocean looks trapped behind your eyes.

And I lock it away for the long nights without you, when I ache for the sound of your breathing and the warmth of your body. I am forever trying to capture every moment, to mentally photograph your face in those magical moments when laughter erupts from your stomach and filters into the space between us like glitter. I’m pressing record on every word which leaves your mouth and letting them drown me when I find myself alone.

And it is in those moments, the quiet ones, when I feel pieces of myself falling away, the stable pieces, the content pieces and I feel lost, almost. Not quite whole.

Because when you’re not here, my darling neither am I.

I am always waiting for you to leave again and return again. I forever feel in limbo—excited to see you and dreading you leaving. The ground beneath me is constantly shifting, and I am always falling, reaching out for you but you’re not here. Not even close.

And I can feel my heart breaking inside my chest as I try to think of a time when we will be together again, not just for a weekend but always, as it we should be, as we were meant to be.

You’ll always feel like Sunday evening, that thickness of dread swirling deep inside me and casting a shadow over us. You feel like sleepless nights, and mornings not wanting to untangle our bodies.

You are ‘one more coffee’ and ‘catch a later train, my love.’ You are ‘please I am not ready just yet.’

But the truth is, I am never ready to say goodbye to you.

So you will always remind me of the train station, of tear stained faces and bodies wrapped around each other, of hands interlocked and not wanting to let go. That whistle as your train leaves the platform will always echo in my ears and I’ll always feel that ache deep inside me at your absence.

You are beautiful but fleeting; you are my Sunday evening.