and I'm the kind of love it hurts to look at, but once I was enough to make you try
now, I'm underneath the rubble, trying not to feel the trouble.
He’d known that he would lose her, eventually.
He’d know that there was no hope of him keeping her. He’d known it the first time she’d turned that steady stare his way. And he’d come to terms with it, contented himself with the time he had her, however brief. Because she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen – still is, really – and he’d decided on that first day that the memory of her would be enough to carry him through the rest of his life.
And then.
And then she had come back to him like a dream. She had sought him out and he had known then, quite immediately, that he loved her. Just as he had known that he would lose her again and he would let her go. He would not ask her to stay. He would not ask her to love him, too.
And she had gone, just as he’d known she would. But he did not ache, because he loved her and that was enough. Because she had given him new memories to buoy him, to save him from drowning, to protect him from whatever grief loitered in the shadows, waiting to sink poison into his veins.
He wanders further now than he ever has before. He wanders to the edges of the earth because he can make the sea kind, he wanders to mountains and through forests because he has no reason to fear death now. Because he has been to the summit, he’d had her for a time and he knows now just as he had known then that life would never be better than that.
But he always returns to the meadow. Just in case. In case she comes looking for him again. In case she needs him. And darkness is gathering on the horizon when he hears her voice and he thinks he’s dreamed it. Wished it into existence.
But she’s looking at him so plainly that she must be real. And she is apologizing, which she never does in her dreams, because she doesn’t have to. There is no tangible reason for it. His expression softens now. He smiles and shakes his head and reaches out to touch her. Gently.
It is only then that he takes note of the swell of her barrel. It gives him pause, but he does not immediately call attention to it. Instead, he pulls back his head to look her steady in the eye again.
“I always knew you would,” he says, smiling still. It does not sound like an accusation. No, there is nothing in the tone save for understanding. “Thank you for staying as long as you did.” And in this there is no grief, no indescribable hurt. There is only sincere gratitude.
THOMAS
— and you don't care for me enough to cry —