The Love of Forgetting

I remember our last time together.
Your arms around my waist, your face buried in my hair, your voice, whispering, again and again, "Why couldn't it work out? How did we fall apart?"
My fingers digging in your shoulders, as though they didn't care about the "why's" and "how's", as though they couldn't bear to let go. But my heart had already let go of you. 

That day silence was all your words met in return. That day my words couldn't make past the pain of letting go. 
I wondered the answer to your questions, on days when my body missed the warmth of yours with a pain that made my eyes blur. I wondered the answer to your questions, on nights when my lips longed to taste yours, but instead all they tasted were the tears you left behind. 
It's been ten years and the answer I have craved for so long has finally come to me. 
Our love was a destruction from the very start. It was a hurricane, leaving nothing but ruins in its wake. It was too intense, too passionate and maybe that's a good thing for some people, but it wasn't for us. Our hunger was all consuming, our mouths violent against each other, our touches burning each other's skins, tearing everything apart. Our love was one of forgetting. And it used to be enough, even though it damaged parts of us in its way. It used to be enough.
But now I'm learning a different kind of love. Love that's like quiet waves in the ocean, stirring something deep in your heart. Love that's like the warm summer air wrapping around your body like a blanket. Touches that don't burn you skin, instead settle on it like feathers. Touches that stay even when you are not touching. And now that I have discovered a love that is not restless and rough and wounding, I refuse to settle for enough. 

 Picture credits: Jen Palmer