This was a writing prompt response to the picture below. A teeny tiny bit of a much longer love story.
This bench was ours,
of course it’s belonged to others too,
but it was “ours”.
Today I sit here alone and wonder where you are,
whether I’ll be able to find you again,
or whether as we vowed,
we’d be there waiting.
For each other, for our better half.
I remember how you’d argue with me about that,
about being the better half.
I said it was all about perspective dear
and you claimed I needed new glasses.
Today you’re right,
(as you always laughingly declared.)
My lenses seem fogged and I’m unable to wipe them clean.
They’re clouded by a deep ache,
from the center of my gut.
A new ache,
not one of the hundred regular ones
that seemed to pummel both of us as we aged.
This new ache has your name inscribed,
as on a vase of emptiness,
no longer filled by the gorgeous flower you use to be.
You’d say you were wilting
and I’d say you’d just begun to bloom.
You’d say I was looney.
I’d say only for you.
If they wouldn’t think I was a creepy old man,
I’d tell that couple over there to do it all,
to not hesitate,
to dive off the high board
and swim the deepest seas,
To never take one moment for granted.
Because when it’s time for our last call,
that’s all that’s left behind the bar,
I hope you know in your heart that I never took you for granted.
I hope you’re treasuring all our moments
as I am right now.
You were always my top shelf
and I miss you so.
Keep shining your light through this fog
so I can find you.