Mine

He wasn’t mine.

He never was.

He was a pretty idea that made my heart plan for a future that he didn’t want to give me.

Didn’t care to give me.

Didn’t need to give me.

Didn’t have to give me.

Maybe didn’t deserve to give me.

He wasn’t mine but somehow he was. His Body. His solid being. The beauty I had to put on my reading glasses and hold him close to me to see. That beauty was as real to me as his hands in my hair. His breath on my skin. My head pressed against his. His eyes locked on mine. The way I wore his smell home.

Home to where I couldn’t tell my mother that I was finally in love.

Home.

The place where I imagined watching his tall frame get ready for a busy day as I wore his smell on me because I was his.

Home.

The place where I would never have to leave him.

Home.

The place where I would never need to lie to my mother about where I was.

Home.

The place I was supposed to prove to my father was real because there was a man in the world who actually loved me.

He wasn’t mine but I was his and he held me in the palm of his hand like a sad little scrap of paper when I just knew I was his star.

He wasn’t mine. He never was but I’ve always been his. We’re miles apart and his hold on me is as strong the love I still have for him.

As warm as the kisses he gave me. As pretty as the hairs I swept off of his forehead when he told me I was all his.

As solid as the last time I felt his arms around me.

I’m still his because if he woke up on the right side of that warm bed we once shared and decided that I was a sad little scrap of paper that he wanted to keep and write his name on over and over again until he ran out of space then that would be good enough for me and I’d happily go right back to the home I found in the palm of his hand.