There is beauty in endings.
I remember when you said that, curled up into my side as you pressed your paperback shut. Only you would find joy in something you loved coming to an end.
“Love never ends, though.” I’d said, nuzzling your temple.
I don’t think that’s true. I think it has to end, right? Because if it was forever, if you knew that it would never truly end, you’d never appreciate it.
“Is this your philosophical way of telling me you want to break up?”
You laughed and the earth rumbled. I don’t think we’ll be together forever because there is no forever. But don’t you think that’s better? If we do only have one life, one chance to get it right, isn’t it more romantic that against all odds we did find each other? That I get to have your forever?
I tried to argue with you, tried to tell you that when two people belong like we did that their love would break all cosmic and linear bounds. It was as if the universe called my bluff. Not even a month later and you got worried about a strange lump in your left breast. Not even a month later and you went from being the love of my life to an incubator for imminent death. I watched you become finite; felt you slip through my fingers as if you were already ash. And you were resilient, of course you were, nothing would take you down without a fight. But it was never a fair fight.
I don’t really know how to say goodbyes, but this isn’t what this is. I’m not letting you go, because I never will. I don’t think I’m even capable of it. I just want it to be known that our love was real, that it was fleeting, yes, but ferocious. It was beautiful.
And a wise woman once told me that there is beauty in endings.