There is something remarkable about familiarity. If you haven’t had it with someone then you cannot even comprehend what you’re missing. When you can lay next to a person and touch them and curl into their body perfectly without feeling like you’re intruding on their space, because their body is merely an extension of your own, it’s bliss. You can feel the moment they drift asleep because their breathing changes next to you. You know what to do and say to turn them on. They know what you need to hear and how to touch you when words aren’t enough.
Suddenly though, this person might decide to become a stranger to you. To cut you out and put up walls saying that their body is theirs and their life their own, not yours too. So you relearn everything again: how to sleep alone, how to touch yourself in the ways they did, how to breathe in without their breath as a guide. Every time our hearts are broken we have to rise from our own ashes, the ashes we created ourselves when we let the passion of love- or whatever- burn us up.
But what if I would rather just stay smoldering in the embers of our fire, hoping that your breath will come again and rekindle the flames?